


My Only Faeling

by theauthorish



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Fae & Fairies, Fantasy, Gen, Kang Yeosang-centric, Multi, OT8, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 25,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24693256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theauthorish/pseuds/theauthorish
Summary: In a town such as this, where the Fair Folk had once— and were said to still— tread, where too much or too little of anything was an omen, a curse? He had been blessed too much, they said, shying away from him like spooked animals. He was touched by Them, They that lived beneath the old hill underneath the maple trees. It was the only explanation.Touched, one would ask, always. You must mean something else? Surely he is one of Them himself. Surely Their blood flows through his veins. They've even marked him.Awe and fear and envy. Yeosang knew the taste of that particular cocktail a little too well. They spat out the words so carelessly, and he had never been fond of waste; he swallowed them all down and let them fill his stomach, heavy as winter's chill. Heavy as the pointed stares, just shy of eye contact— a little too far left, focused on the pink smudges at the corner of his eye.
Relationships: Kang Yeosang/Everyone
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i had a Mighty Need for fae ateez and also I missed writing elaborate imagery and fancy long things so tada! Will try and get part 2 done soon!

Yeosang was beautiful, this he knew— and mourned. He wished, sometimes, that the universe would see fit to take back some of its blessing; that maybe, as the nights passed and the moon waxed and waned (and waxed and waned) that perhaps he would wake and his jaw would no longer be so sharp. Or, might his nose be more crooked, his skin less even, less smooth? Mayhap his eyes would lose their sparkle, his cheeks their gentle flush, his hair its sheen and gentle curl?

It never did. And so he mourned.

He then, of course, felt guilty for it, when beauty was so often coveted by others, but that… was neither here nor there, really. More importantly, his beauty was such that no one trusted him. Not truly.

In a town such as this, where the Fair Folk had once— and were said to still— tread, where too much or too little of anything was an omen, a curse? He had been blessed too much, they said, shying away from him like spooked animals. He was touched by  _ Them _ , They that lived beneath the old hill underneath the maple trees. It was the only explanation.

_ Touched _ , one would ask, always.  _ You must mean something else? Surely he is one of Them himself. Surely Their blood flows through his veins _ .  _ They've even marked him. _

Awe and fear and envy. Yeosang knew the taste of that particular cocktail a little too well. They spat out the words so carelessly, and he had never been fond of waste; he swallowed them all down and let them fill his stomach, heavy as winter's chill. Heavy as the pointed stares, just shy of eye contact— a little too far left, focused on the pink smudges at the corner of his eye.

He wondered, sometimes, about that. If maybe they were right. Could they be? He didn't think so. Surely if magic were real, if the Fair Folk had truly dwelled here, They didn't any longer. The town got duller and duller each passing year: the interesting people left for brighter pastures, unbothered and unfettered by whatever strange bond had held so fast to their parents and their parents' parents before that. The grasses were no longer quite so green, the leaves when they fell in the autumn no longer so red, so gold, so richly earthy. Even the wildlife seemed more sluggish, heading into hibernation earlier each year, emerging later with each spring that unfurled. Whatever magic had been here (if it ever had been), it was fading. 

Everyone knew it, too. The kids got bolder each time, chased each other deeper into the woods, past the treeline the elders warned them never to cross. The men stopped being so careful of their words, stopped treading so softly on the paths they walked, more willing to claim the land than they had been the year before. The women didn't shut the doors nearly so tight after dusk fell, danced and laughed and spun through the fields below the stars as if nothing could touch them, though they had been told all their lives  _ something _ might just, if they were pretty enough and young enough and out late enough.

Then again, some things just couldn't be explained  _ except _ by magic. This too, Yeosang was overly familiar with. It wasn't just his looks, after all, that made people glance at him sideways. For one thing, even as a child, he had always been unfailingly honest. No one really understood why— other kids lied to stay out of trouble, other adolescents lied to be polite.

Yeosang didn't do any of that. He was always brutally blunt, regardless of the consequences. He was always speaking before he could think better of it (that was of course, if he spoke at all, but that was a different issue altogether). He didn't skirt around things, didn't beat around the bush. He didn't like to. It made him feel vile inside, like every falsehood dipped his tongue in poison.

(They said the Folk couldn't lie either, bound by some sort of magic in Their heritage to speak nothing but the truth.)

The other thing was probably a great deal of the cause for the townsfolk's wariness of him. It was a knack, you see.

It wasn't unheard of, having a knack. It was even more common here than most anywhere else, some vestiges, maybe, of the old magic that lived here finding its way into the blood of the town. Some people were just blessed more than most. Keonhee, for example, from the town's sole bakery, could always tell a storm was coming long before the sky darkened in warning, and had yet to be wrong. And Chan, whose family ran a ranch just on the outskirts, was insanely lucky; he won almost any game of chance he was presented with, always knew, somehow, what bets to take.

Yeosang's knack was that he never lost things, which was, admittedly, not nearly as flashy as the others he knew of, though it was definitely nice, never having to turn his house upside down because he couldn't find his gardening tools, or the key to his chest of personal effects. He probably wouldn't even have called it a knack on its own, if not for the fact that if  _ someone else  _ lost something and mentioned it to him, he always knew where to find it, despite having no way he could reasonably know. And he always told them, simply because he could never bear not to, not when he could save them so much hassle.

That combined with everything else that made him who he was: his appearance, his personality… apparently it was too much for even the least superstitious of the other townsfolk. They were, after all, still their parents' children, and the fear of the  _ other _ always ran deep. It was human nature.

Especially in a town like this.

They didn't trust him, tiptoed around him like if they were careless, he'd turn them into frogs or curse them to age a year for every second that passed, like the Folk did to those that displeased Them in the old tales. It was ridiculous, by the way. Yeosang didn't like frogs. And old people were all right, even endearing, but he didn't think he wanted to watch someone's body age and eventually decompose right before his eyes. That would be too emotionally scarring. And anyway, he couldn't do any of those things.

All he could do was find things, like a human dowsing rod.

He sighed as yet another person breezed past his tiny market stall, not even glancing at his wares, barely nodding at him in a last-ditch attempt at manners. Like he wasn't even there, almost.

He never sold anything, really, unless Keonhee passed by. He knew what it was like. The townsfolk treated him the same way, though much less harsh, so he helped to look after Yeosang where he could, and Yeosang did the same for him. 

Speak of the devil…

"Yeosang!"

"Hyung," Yeosang greeted, already reaching for the strawberries he'd picked that day from his garden, tucking them into a small cheesecloth.

"Yeosangie," Keonhee sang, holding out a tiny wicker basket, all the more comical in size for how long Keonhee himself was. "You always know the way to my heart." He held his unoccupied hand to his chest, sighing dramatically, as he was wont to do. Yeosang only rolled his eyes. 

When he had tucked the fruits into Keonhee's  _ tiny _ basket, the baker beamed and thanked him, pressing a handful of coins into his palm.

Three silver, a single gold.

More than he usually gave.

Yeosang frowned. "Did you want something else?" He asked, already scanning the (literal) fruits of his labor for other things Keonhee was partial to. Perhaps some apples. Those were particularly rosy lately. Or maybe some of the herbs? 

"No," Keonhee chirped, bouncing like an overactive child. He beamed brighter.

He wasn't usually so…  _ oh _ .

"You're overcompensating," Yeosang realized, quiet. He put some apples in the basket anyway, but moved no further. "What happened, hyung?"

"I—" Keonhee began, bouncing twice more, seemingly ready to begin vibrating.

Yeosang raised a singular, scathing eyebrow, and he deflated. Just like that, drooping, a cut flower wilting.

"They were talking about you again. They want to chase you out of the town, some of them," he admitted. "I doubt it will go anywhere, it never does, but… the likelihood is it will get worse. At least for a little while. It’s probably the solstice tonight that has them so antsy— as if it doesn’t come and go every year without incident."

Keonhee’s smile had never dropped— but it did falter, sad and defeated. “Yeosangie,” he murmured. “We can always move somewhere else. Hwanwoong did, remember? The city he lives in now, he says they  _ love _ to see him dance, pay him handsomely to do it at parties day and night. When they call him faery, he says it’s a compliment, and you can tell. I will go with you, if you choose to.”

This, Yeosang knew. Always had, since that day four years ago when they met by the river, covered in tar both, curses still ringing in their ears. (Children could be so very cruel.) They had bonded, become best friends, and never looked back.

The greatest mystery of all, really, was that despite knowing this, despite knowing that almost anywhere other than here, he would be celebrated rather than scorned, could relish in life, rather than hurt in it—

He chose to stay. Again and again.

He wanted to laugh. Maybe he really  _ was _ touched by that old magic. By Them. Why else would he choose this life?

“It’s all right,” said Yeosang, plucking up a few sprigs of herbs without bothering to check what they were and putting them with the rest of Keonhee’s purchases. He was a baker; whatever Yeosang had given, surely he’d find a use for them. “It will pass. All storms do.” He gave Keonhee a knowing look, lips quirking up at the corners.

“That they do. I would know,” Keonhee agreed with a wink. “I’ll be back tomorrow.” He made a show of hefting up his basket like it was heavy because it was full, then turned away, still pretending to waddle under the weight. Yeosang snorted. Ridiculous.

“Why not just get a basket bigger than a thimble, hyung?” He called out.

“What? Cannot— hear you— breathing too hard!”

“That makes no sense!”

Keonhee only waved over his shoulder, skipping back to town.

Yeosang shook his head, smiling.

/////

His little home was idyllic. He didn’t have much: his cottage, a few fruit trees, a small garden outside where his herbs and vegetables grew, (not easily, certainly— it was many a day out in the sun tending to them, weeding their plot, that Yeosang spent— but well enough). His cottage had just enough space for one to be comfortable, two, maybe, if they didn’t mind bumping into each other every few minutes. (When his parents had still been around, and he had been young, someone was always touching someone else at some point; when he had grown up, they simply hadn’t fit, so Yeosang had built them a new home, closer to the center of town and they lived there now.)

He arrived home that night, though, to find that the garden had been ravaged, idyllic no more. What little he had left unharvested had been crushed carelessly beneath heavy boots, or else hurled against the wall of his cottage, staining it in juice and shattered fruit flesh. His herbs had been burned and smudged against his fence, as if he were a ghost in need of warding off, some Fae haunting to be chased away by some inherent spell in the smoke. The earth of his plot had been overturned and dug and scattered, mixed with salt he could still see glinting in the fading daylight. Everything else had been uprooted, shredded by careless hands or oversharp shears.

His one solace, his one constant company… his one source of income. Ruined.

And for what? Spite? Unfounded fear?

What had Yeosang ever done but play nice? He had taught himself to be silent as much as possible, so they need not fear his sharp tongue. He had taught himself to mind his own business, to keep himself to himself, and even distanced himself from his parents where he could, so no one feared them either. He forgave and forgot, and when things were spat at him or things were taken from him, Yeosang gladly took it all without a word to anyone beyond Keonhee, nothing so much as a gentle reprimand. He simply went about repairs or replacement. Simply ducked his head lower and kept walking.

Had he ever brought misfortune on anyone, as they said he would? Had they ever even seen proof that They favored him, that They existed at all? Surely if They were real, he was not Their concern— otherwise, why would he suffer so much in Their name, with not a single reward, not a single reassurance by sight nor sound nor dream that They touched his life, truly, They did?

They must have been nothing but tales. Superstition.

Yeosang had been a fool to ever believe otherwise. So had everyone else in this town.

And he would prove it tonight.

/////

The night chill was not unfamiliar, and neither were the woods around him. It seemed it, though, in the dark. The branches reaching skyward seemed like fingers, the roots beneath his feet like they would grab him and hold him captive. Every sound echoed like a warning, rang through his mind and his soul and his bones. ( _ Go home, human, this place is not for you) _ . The flicker of his single lantern in the wind was nothing but a nuisance to the night; it did very little to combat it, and the only thing keeping Yeosang’s grip on it was that it was his only comfort, out in the forest by himself, on the night of all nights they were to avoid.

They were stronger on solstices, or so the stories went.

And yet, on the midsummer’s solstice, here Yeosang was, fighting every instinct in his body, every calling of that old trace of magic in him, every tenet he’d grown up with to keep him safe.

They were all built, Yeosang was practically certain now, on lies. The fear was learned. And he would unlearn it only by facing it with his eyes open.

He didn’t have far to walk to arrive at his destination. There was a clearing about an hour into the forest. It never mattered what direction you came from— the time to reach it was always the same, and one always did reach it, unless you turned back from whence you came. It was about fifteen feet wide, empty but for a singular stone well no one knew the origins of and a mound of earth and grass— too small to be a hill, really, barely as tall as Yeosang himself— with some long-abandoned burrow dug into it.

Mushrooms lined the edges of the treeline, some bright and poisonous, some dirt-brown and midnight black and perfect for stews. Flowers and vines blossomed in too vibrant shades, all over the space, but especially above and around the burrow. Moonlight poured down from overhead with no canopy of foliage to mind, here, lighting everything in stark relief, colorful and bright and near glowing.

It was gorgeous enough to set Yeosang’s hair standing on end. 

He froze at the edge, the toes of his boots shy of the circle of fungus that served as the boundary. The Faery Ring. They were always told to skirt around it. To never breach it.

Yeosang steeled himself, inhaled clear night air and pushed it from his lungs along with his doubts. He would do this.

He stepped inside, bracing himself for… something. For creatures he couldn’t understand to suddenly appear, as if unveiled from his sight. To be assaulted by something he couldn’t see. To be hexed where he stood. At the very least, he expected the atmosphere to be different somehow.

It was not.

Nothing changed, and though Yeosang held himself deathly still for a few minutes more, just in case, it remained the same. Eventually, he moved, taking careful, measured steps towards the well. The stone was nearly freezing beneath his hands, the wooden cover smooth as if it had never been weathered at all since its making, despite its place out here, exposed to the elements, with no one to tend to it. He began to lift the cover—

And dropped it with a yelp. (The clatter of the cover back over the well did not echo, though Yeosang would have thought it to.) He turned his palm up to let the moon illuminate it and expected to find a splinter there; he could still feel the bite of it when it had broken skin.

But there was nothing there, and his skin was unblemished, not even a red spot or an indent, though the sensation of the sting was still fading.

Yeosang really should have known then, that he was being a fool. That the best course of action would be to return home and do as he always did. Gardens could be grown again, his house and fence cleaned. It would be tiring work, for certain, but Yeosang did very little else, anyway, and Keonhee would gladly look after him until he could once again have a harvest to sell.

But what purpose would that serve? He was here already. He ought to follow through.

He sidestepped the well, murmuring a quiet apology to it despite himself, a habit too ingrained in his conscience to ignore, before stepping towards the burrow. He brushed a tender hand over the petals and the leaves sprawling over the little hill, marveling at the velvet feel of them beneath his palms, at the colors so rich even in the pale light of the moon that often was cruel to art, hid its best features and dulled its palettes. For all the moon’s best efforts though, these ones seemed impervious; Yeosang could only imagine what a sight they’d be in the day.

He dropped into a crouch. They were often called the Folk Under The HIll, weren’t They? This wasn’t quite a hill, but… it was close enough, and this was where the Fae were known to dwell, around here. Besides, if he meant to stay the night here to prove it all untrue, he’d need some shelter from the cold of the night. The burrow was the only place. 

It wasn’t a very tall nor deep burrow, but neither was it that of a small animal either; if Yeosang crouched down, he could just fit inside it. Gingerly, careful not to crush any of the plants growing at the burrow’s entrance, he lowered himself down to sit, tugging his knees to his chest.

One moment, he was looking out at the clearing, at the humble stone well and the familiar treeline, at the bright dots of mushrooms and lichen and flora. The world he knew.

The next moment, he saw something else entirely.

Before him was a revel unlike any he’d ever witnessed before. Lit by a bonfire raging wild and high and yet so contained, flashing all colors of the rainbow, even hues Yeosang had no name for, was sure  _ no one _ had names for, were… creatures. They were not human, this, Yeosang was sure of. Oh, They looked it— from certain angles, or when shadowed certain ways. But when Yeosang twisted his head just so, or when he had just blinked, in the moment when his eyes were only open a fraction, and not yet fully so, he glimpsed Their true forms: some monstrous and tall, lanky arms and legs like brittle bone, with blackened skin that cracked when They moved, ambling along in a slow plod of a dance; some were made, it seemed, entirely of moss, with ram horns or deer antlers laden with fruit that seemed to grow from them, juice dripping from lips that looked like bark, Their smiles wide and luminescent as mini crescent moons, tossing back the light of the flames as They sang; others were small and flew, carried by sparrow wings and bluejay feathers, Their eyes lined with kohl and crushed jewel-beetle shells and delicately cut butterfly wings, laughing as They twirled up and down, round and round...

He blinked and blinked again, but it didn’t seem to be a mirage. He pinched his arm until he thought he’d break skin, and did not wake— neither, it seemed, was it a dream.

Which meant it was real, and all of it— the tales, the murmurs, the warnings they’d been dealt— _all_ _of it_ was true. And Yeosang had gone and done the very thing he should not have, on the most dangerous night of all.

He felt his breathing quicken, his pulse race in his trembling veins. It was all so beautiful, truly, but he knew no matter how his mind and eyes begged to look, he could not stay. But did he have an option? He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, much less how to leave.

If They saw him, he would die.

Certainly, not immediately.  _ They _ were never so straightforward as that, if the stories were to be believed— and clearly, Yeosang should have listened. They would toy with him first, and then when They tired of him…

Or maybe They’d like him enough to keep him, maybe even let him go afterward… but who knew when that would be? Who knew how time passed here? It was said that a single night here could easily be a single second in the human realm, or a century, or even a millennium, depending on the whims of the Folk.

As if alerted to his fear, a woman (or, well, something that looked like one; Yeosang didn’t know its true form, couldn’t tell yet what it was) skipping around the fire saw him and smiled a smile too beautiful to be anything but unsettling, especially centered on Yeosang as it was. She knew he was here, and Yeosang had no uncertainty that she would come to him, eventually.

There was nowhere to go, no way to hide. He couldn’t even stand and leave, too afraid to attract more notice from the other beings in the clearing, too afraid They’d take offense to his interrupting Their festivities.

“Pardon me,” said a bright voice, as a man crouched down before him, appearing as if from nowhere. He was gorgeous, of course, as all of Them were, but… his beauty was less haunting, somehow, less wild. Or well, perhaps that last was untrue. His feet were bare, like he had been so eager to join the revel that he hadn’t even bothered with shoes. (Even as Yeosang watched, though, moss was already growing where he stood, as if the earth itself were rolling out a carpet for him.) Vines spiraled down his arms and legs, ivy and roses curling over the dips and ridges of muscle, wrapping around his fingers and his bare ankles where they peeked out beneath his breeches. His dark hair was long and unruly, curling whichever way it saw fit, sparkling with dew drops that reflected the firelight in glimmering rainbows. When he tucked a lock of it behind his ear, Yeosang watched as the smallest flower— a sweetpea, this one, no bigger than Yeosang’s fingertip— burst into bloom where he had touched.

So yes, he was indeed wild. But he had a sort of warmth to him, too. Joy among the chaos. Like a garden left to thrive, no hands to prune and cut it down to size. Like the ruins of some human failing reclaimed by nature. Like… like the forest when the sun filtered through the trees and made the deep and endless seem wondrous, illuminated the depths of life so easy to miss in the dark. It did not scare Yeosang, not really. Nothing like the stone-cold shiver he’d felt, looking into that woman's eyes.

“Pardon me,” repeated the man— the Fae, he could be nothing else— when Yeosang, too absorbed in his observation, made no response. Yeosang startled, raising his eyes to meet the Fae’s gaze. His irises… one was the deep green of pine needles, the other brown and rich as soil. His smile was just as light as his tone when he spoke. “But is it not uncomfortable, down there?”

“I-it’s all right,” Yeosang murmured, much too faint. He cursed himself mentally for the stutter, remembered enough of the old tales to know any sign of weakness was dangerous. He fought the urge to draw back.

“It is not. Your back must hurt, curled up like that. This was not a burrow meant for men.” He held out a hand coaxingly. “It is much easier to stand, out here.”

“Thank you for the consideration,” said Yeosang, carefully. “But with all respect, surely you should not pose a question only to reject the answer? I am all right. Thank you.”

The Fae only giggled, high and sweet. It sounded like wild strawberries tasted, though how that made any sense, Yeosang didn’t know. All he knew was that it was true. “You are afraid,” he said, in a lilting songbird’s voice. “And yet, your tongue is sharp and quick as a whip, still.”

Yeosang flushed, but bit his lip to keep from making another retort. He hadn’t meant to. Truly, he hadn’t. But it wasn’t in his nature to hold his tongue, could he help it.

“You are afraid I will hurt you,” said the Fae once more, softer this time. “I will not harm you, little human. This I swear, on the forest beneath my feet.” No sooner had he said it, than something in the air trembled and hung there, just for a moment. Yeosang couldn’t have said what it was; it dissipated as suddenly as it had come, but he trusted in his senses.

Some magic had taken place, just now. Magic that bound.

Magic that promised.

“Will you trust me, now?”

Yeosang nodded once, slowly. The Fae offered his hand again, and Yeosang took it, allowing the Fae to pull him to his feet.

“Better, is it not?” chirped the Fae, releasing him quickly, just as Yeosang felt… was that a vine against his knuckles? Whatever the case, he had to admit it was. He could breathe easier, with more space, and his back had begun to ache, curled in so tightly as it had been. Not to mention how tense he’d been holding himself. “Shall we go?”

Yeosang turned wide eyes on him. “Go?” he echoed, suddenly acutely aware of what a fool he’d been. Perhaps  _ this _ Fae would not hurt him, but what of the others? There were so many, all around him, all manner of awe-inspiring and terrible.

The Fae seemed to know what he was thinking. “When I said I would not harm you, I meant by action and inaction both. No danger will befall you this night, can I help it.” He paused. “Though, admittedly, it will be easier for me to keep my word away from the main celebration. And when we are there, I can safely give you my name.”

“Your—” Yeosang sputtered, caught off guard. “Why would you give me such a gift as that?” And it  _ was _ a gift, this much Yeosang knew. The Fae did not take names lightly. “You have already promised me protection. It is enough, though I—”

The Fae wrinkled his nose. “Save the pleasantries, please. I am not very fond of them. I am giving it to you because I choose to. And gifts are not meant to be counted, neither by giver nor receiver. Come.”

He turned and began to venture deeper into the woods, giving the ongoing revelry a wide berth, gaze heavy on the other Fae so They did not come near. 

Yeosang followed. What else could he do?

/////

They wound up in a much smaller clearing— actually, it was more of a gap in the trees than anything— with a smaller, much more ordinary bonfire burning.

Sitting and standing around it in a loose sort of circle, were five other Fae and a large white wolf, its white fur stained blood red in places (though… that may have just been the light; Yeosang certainly hoped so), and a chain clasped at its throat.

Yeosang’s companion seemed to know and trust them, if the wide smile on his lips was any indication.

“Told you,” said one of Them, before he could even open his mouth. “He always adopts the strays.”

Yeosang shrunk back as the one who’d spoken turned to look at them with golden eyes that seemed almost to shine in the dark. Something about the weight of his gaze set primal fear loose in Yeosang’s stomach, like prey pinned in a predator’s sights. This Fae was dangerous, his instincts said, no matter the softness of the smile on his lips, or the sweet shine of his eyes. The only thing keeping Yeosang still, really, was the constant awareness that he had no protection if he returned to the main festival; here at least, he had his companion. 

“Have you given him your name yet, or shall I?” said the Fae to Yeosang’s rescuer, in a voice dark and deep as a grave, or a night of a new moon, haunting in its vastness.

“Do  _ not _ ,” said a different Fae, scowling as he flicked crimson hair from his eyes. It wasn’t even directed at him, but Yeosang flinched, slightly, under the scathing burn of it. “You know you will suffer for it. It is not your gift to give, and whether he minds or not, the old magic—”

“I know, I know.” The first one raised his hands, silent surrender. “I was teasing.” 

“It was in poor taste,” came the responding huff. Yeosang was staring now, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to look away, despite his better manners (and manners, he’d been told, were very highly held, among the Folk). This Fae, he had veins that glowed beneath his skin like trails of lava; Yeosang thought that just one glancing touch against them would be enough to set him ablaze. It was a beautiful sight, in a very fatalistic way. Yeosang was very glad at the distance between them. At any rate, though the Fae must have noticed Yeosang’s eyes on him, he did not acknowledge it.

“Well, I was going to,” said Yeosang’s companion, frowning slightly at having been cut off. Had Yeosang not known any better, he’d have called it cute. As it was, it was nothing more than a surprisingly human gesture, for one of Them. “But I wanted him to know that he has nothing to fear from you all first.”

The huffy one spoke, eyeing Yeosang calmly. Yeosang felt strangely bare, as if he were an open letter, a single flimsy sheet of script out in the open for any passersby to read as they pleased, and this Fae just happened to be one of them. “Admirable, certainly, but he looks overwhelmed, right now. Your name will ground him first, all the more for the pact you have already made with him.”

“Who says I—”

A raised eyebrow stopped Yeosang’s benefactor from speaking any further, ducking his head under the wordless reprimand. He turned his vibrant, mismatched eyes on Yeosang again. “My name,” he said quietly, bringing a hand to his left breast, where his heart beat. He extended the same hand to Yeosang, palm open. Presenting something. “Is Wooyoung.”

When he said it… it sounded like the wind whistling through the trees, like the susurrus of leaves on an autumn day. It sounded like delicate budding flowers unfurling in pops of color and strong oaks climbing upward, ever upward. It sounded  _ alive _ . Though Wooyoung’s voice had not changed, though all he had said were four words, there were layers and layers of definition to it, to all it encompassed (and that made sense, didn’t it, given that Wooyoung was a long lived creature, with many stories and many facets, much more than Yeosang, who was but young and mortal).

Or perhaps Yeosang was simply thinking too much of it. Whatever the case, something about it simply clicked with the Fae before Yeosang, slotted in perfectly like a key into the lock for which it was cast. 

Yeosang didn’t even realize he was smiling slightly until he spoke. “Thank you for telling me,” he breathed. And, because it was only fair, “If you would have it, I would—”

“Wait.”

The command came from none other than the same huffy Fae as earlier, his red eyes stern and smoldering beneath his brow. Now these, Yeosang was sure were shining quite literally— like there were flames flickering behind them, just barely held in check. “Do you realize, mortal, what that means? What giving your name implies?”

“He does,” snapped Wooyoung, seemingly a little put out. “Hyung, he called it a gift. He knows what my name means in his hands. It is not so farfetched—”

“Wooyoung-ah,” came the warning. Wooyoung fell silent, catching his lip between his teeth, frown etched deep on his face. “It may be that he understands, but does he  _ truly _ ? You— we— are powerful. The old magic runs through our veins, and our existence is rooted so deeply in it that we can bend it to our will without even thinking. We understand the power of names and Names far more than humans ever will. We understand how to  _ invoke _ it more than they ever will.” He met Yeosang’s eyes. Yeosang felt like he would be razed to the ground by just that contact, felt like he’d crumble into ash, or maybe be smothered by smoke. “Do you understand this? Wooyoung means no harm, and this he has proven; he has made an oath to you and given his name besides, but you need not give yours. Intention does not always assure results.”

Yeosang swallowed against the sudden grittiness in his throat. “I understand,” he croaked.

“Do you?” repeated the Fae. “I have not even finished.” Yeosang ducked his head, properly chastised. He was lucky, he supposed, not to be struck down where he stood. He knew many others would have been for much less than interrupting, when it came to the Folk. “Though you have Wooyoung’s name, and therefore power over him, the power he would have over you should you return the favor would not be equal. It is a rare man that knows how to manipulate a name the way a Fae might.”

Yeosang nodded. “I understand.”

“And one more thing. Wooyoung is our friend, but we six—” he gestured at the circle around him, all eyes heavy on Yeosang, even the wolf’s, whose eyes had been shut just moments ago, seemingly asleep. (Six, he said, Yeosang noted; he had already known the wolf was no ordinary beast, but he had not suspected it to be a Fae as well. A Wolf, then, not just a mere wolf.)— “We six need not share his commitments. Shall you give your name here, all of us will hear. All of us will know. And you shall only have one of our names, and only  _ his _ word, and none of ours.”

“Hyung!” Wooyoung protested, reaching for Yeosang’s hand and brushing his knuckles over it gently, like some sort of reassurance. It itched, a little, thanks to the foliage that wrapped seemingly every inch of Wooyoung, but he appreciated the attempt. “You are terrifying him.”

“Good. He  _ should _ be terrified. He should have been terrified of us long before he ever came to meet us, so that he would not have wound up here.”

“ _ Hyung _ !”

One of the others, seemingly tired of the back and forth, finally deemed it time to step in, quite literally, too, pacing forward to half block Yeosang and Wooyoung from this fiery Fae’s line of sight. He rested a single hand on his shoulder. “You have made your point,” he said, voice low, but not so low that Yeosang couldn’t hear it from where he stood. Only a few syllables, and barely any inflection to them, and yet—

There was music there. Somewhere. A lilting melody to his words.

“But,” he continued, “There is nothing to be done now. He is here, and he cannot leave ‘til morn. A warning is all well and good, but scaring him is cruel, when he can only make the best of what he has gotten himself into.”

A sigh. “You are right, I suppose.”

The other stepped out of the way again with a nod, quiet once more.

“My apologies.”

“That’s— it is all right. I appreciate your concern,” Yeosang said, hoping it was the right thing to say. It was all he could think of.

The Fae seemed satisfied. “Then you are of somewhat good sense. Only a fool reacts badly to advice meant to help him.” He raised an eyebrow at Wooyoung. “Do you see?”

“Yes, hyung,” Wooyoung muttered. “But what shall I call you then?” he asked, turning to Yeosang. “You can choose an alias. I shan’t choose one for you unless you would prefer that.”

“There is no need for all that,” came that same Fae.

Wooyoung whirled, eyes wide. “Wh— you  _ just _ said— what do you suggest I do? Click my tongue at him like he is a dog?”

“Calm yourself, Wooyoung.” Yeosang was noticing a pattern— though he rarely spoke, the one that seemed to sing was clearly used to diffusing situations here. Friends indeed; he had spoken almost before Wooyoung had finished speaking, like he’d expected it, and clearly, he knew just what the scarlet-eyed Fae had meant by all this, though neither Yeosang, or even Wooyoung did.

“I was just making sure. He needed to know the risks he was taking, and I needed to know if he was clear of mind and rational. Recklessness is the most dangerous thing of all, and if he had too much of it…” He gave Yeosang one more look of consideration. “But it seems he does not. Nor is he prideful. A little naivete, I can forgive.”

“What are you saying, hyung?” said Wooyoung, no longer so incensed, but still confused.

“I am saying that I would be willing to give him my name first, before he offers his. And my word for his protection, too.”

“As would I,” followed the musical one. “And I am sure the others would as well. What he decides, all of us typically agree with; is that not how it has always been? He wanted to be certain it was a risk worth taking, Wooyoung, or else know if we needed to save you from your own too trusting nature. We could not do that if we had already given up our greatest weakness.”

Wooyoung opened his mouth, only to close it again. He gulped, and again, Yeosang was struck by the humanness of it. Were They truly so different from him? Older, certainly, and wiser. Less worldly, with more magic in Their veins. But They didn’t seem so separate as Yeosang had always been made to believe.

Even as he thought it, Yeosang knew he was wrong. The girl by the bonfire had clearly been a different being, easily recognizable despite the glamour she wore like a cloak. These Fae, though— these Fae had something different in Them, something that humanized Them. That Yeosang was fortunate They found him tonight, and seemed willing to bring him into Their fold… that was a gross understatement, to say the least.

“Thank you,” Wooyoung said finally.

“You are welcome,” said the fiery one, his voice filled with so much more warmth than Yeosang would have thought him capable of, just moments before. His smile was just as fierce as his scowl, but softer, too— a hearth to sit by, a sweet, deep-reaching comfort at the end of a long, tiring day. “Then I,” he said, with the same gesture to Yeosang as Wooyoung had done, “am Hongjoong, and I swear on the flames that burn and bring me life to let no harm befall you."

Like before, with Wooyoung, something about it just… felt right. It felt passionate, iridescent. It was bright, but Yeosang could feel that it held back power capable of so much damage— a flame could be a wildfire, devastating forests and cities in its wake, after all, just as easily as it could be the wick of a single candle in the dark of a fearsome night. His promise was like a brand, pressed against the very fabric of the world, irrevocable.

The next to speak was the peacekeeper, his green-gray eyes solemn. He was the most ordinary looking of them all, really. He might have even passed as human, if not for the pointed tips of his ears, sharp and undeniable. “And I am Seonghwa,” he murmured, gentle and soothing, hand touching his heart with so much grace Yeosang wondered if it was practiced, like a dance, no human he knew could move so fluidly, not even Hwanwoong, whose dedication to dance was such that he almost seemed to be entirely composed of it. “And my oath, I make on my blood: on the elven ancestors that taught me to whisper to the heart of the earth, and the blood that I share with you, a changeling’s strength. You will be safe here, from me and from others.”

Yeosang bit his lip and bobbed his head in a nod, though he had no idea, really, what Seonghwa had meant to say. He understood the gist of it though, so surely that was enough?

Beside him, Wooyoung snickered softly. “He can be quite fond of dramatics,” he said. “He probably lost you. Did he?”

Yeosang hesitated. “Well, I— I mean no offense—”

Wooyoung flapped a hand, dismissive. “None will be taken. Seonghwa-hyung gets heckled far worse by all of us, and the most he has ever done is hex us for a week or two.”

“I do not—”

“He will not hex you, I promise. Anyway, he’s not listening to us.” He gestured quietly, to where Seonghwa was in conversation with Hongjoong, expression serious. “They are probably just trying to figure out the best way to keep you safe, tonight, no need to worry,” he added, when Yeosang frowned. “Anyway, he was trying to say that he is part human.” Wooyoung paused. “Part changeling, actually, which is the same thing, truth be told, except changelings are raised Fae, so they get a little more magic in their blood, and act like us.”

Yeosang blinked. “He is?”

Wooyoung hummed. “He is. One fourth, if I recall, though he has lived so long I am not sure even he himself recalls what side it is from.” He shrugged. “Then again, he might. Seonghwa-hyung can be very particular about the oddest of things.”

Huh. Yeosang turned his gaze to Seonghwa once more. So he was human too, somewhat. It was more of a comfort than Yeosang expected. Like he wasn’t as out of place anymore. 

“May I have my turn now?” piped up the golden-eyed Fae. He got up from his seat (an ancient tree stump, judging by the size and the layers and layers of rings), and before anyone else could say a word, bounded— there was no other word for it, truly— up to Yeosang, pressing a fervent hand to his chest and practically shoving it at Yeosang. “My name is Yunho!” He beamed, and it was really, really lovely, actually, but…

Yeosang couldn’t help but flinch, least of all because with how quick and forceful Yunho had moved, Yeosang had almost expected to be punched. Truthfully, it was mostly because something about Yunho sent panic racing through his veins like fire through gunpowder, vicious and unforgiving, too quick to stop. His smile was adorable, but all Yeosang could seem to focus on, despite his best efforts, were the canines just a tad too sharp, the inches by which the Fae towered over him, the—

“You had best take his gift, human,” Hongjoong said quietly, startling Yeosang from his stupor. He was trembling, he noted vaguely, the Fae around him looking unsurprised, but concerned all the same. Yunho seemed oblivious, but when he offered his hand again to Yeosang, it was more tentative, the movement soft and slow so he could register it properly. “It is for your own sake.”

Yeosang stared. He realized, now, that Yunho’s hand was not open, like the others’ had been. It was closed into a fist, fingers curled loosely around something peeking out, silver glinting in the night. Wooyoung tapped gently at his elbow, urging him to move. He raised both shaking hands, cupped them underneath Yunho’s. Carefully, Yunho deposited his gift in them.

It was a simple chain bracelet, matching the ones that adorned Yunho himself— his wrists and his ankles, even his neck, draped over him in layers, though no matter how Yunho bounced, they never so much as clinked together; Yeosang knew he would have noticed them sooner, if they had.

  
“I swear by these chains that bind me to the Hunt,” said Yunho, somber, “That you will not be in any danger while in my presence.” Yeosang met his gaze once more.

A single, freezing gust blew through their little portion of the wood, sent a shiver so strong up Yeosang’s spine that he thought, for a brief moment, that he was having a heart attack, collapsing to one knee like a marionette with its string cut.

There was screaming. So much screaming. Not here, not now, Yeosang knew this with stunning clarity, but it was so loud, drowning everything out… There was blood soaked into this earth, ages and ages, wars and wars worth. There was sickness, and bitterness— and back in town, his little garden would one day be his grave, he was so  _ sure— _

“Put it on,” Wooyoung hissed, urgent, slicing through the din. He dropped into a kneel next to him. “The bracelet.  _ Now _ .”

Yeosang fumbled with it, not bothering to ask why it was so vital. These were the Folk, after all, this was Their realm and Their logic, not his. It took a few seconds, the cacophony of pain growing ever louder in Yeosang’s ears until Wooyoung finally helped him fasten it around his wrist.

The sudden surge of bleak knowledge came to a halt. Yeosang took a hiccuping gasp of air, raised his fingers to his cheeks and found them damp.

“Take your time,” said Seonghwa, bending down before him. He held out a handkerchief, which Yeosang gladly took, heaving deep breaths that rattled in his lungs. “Yunho is a formidable force to face, as is anyone of the Hunt, and there is no hurry for you, with the night just begun.”

“I do not mean to do it,” Yunho said, in a disproportionately small voice, guilty. “I certainly never enjoy it. It is simply my nature. The chains protect you from it, just as they protect me. Everyone here has one. Otherwise, I would not be able to face them much longer than a minute before they lost their minds to the agony.” His was the voice of a man that knew this without a single fragment of doubt, that had watched it happen, that still ached for it, though he had long accepted it as fact.

His was a voice of tragic resignation, and Yeosang could hardly help it when he reached forward and gave Yunho’s hand a squeeze. Yunho gaped at him, clearly shaken by the gesture. And then he grinned, eyes crinkling with the force of it. Wooyoung was cooing in delight, and Yeosang thought he saw Hongjoong and Seonhwa both nodding approvingly off to the side. The others, who Yeosang did not yet know, seemed equally satisfied. Yeosang let Yunho pull him to his feet.

The Wolf was next. It had been curled up by the fire, watching them with slow-blinking hunter’s eyes. Gauging, maybe, whether Yeosang was a threat, or if he was prey. Now, though, it rose, padding closer until it could nudge at Yunho gently with its snout. Yunho turned to it, giggling quietly. “I am fine,” said Yunho. “I am always fine, you know that.”

He was so sunny, Yeosang thought to himself. Despite his nature as a Hunter, despite the specters of misfortune and death haunting him like old friends, Yunho seemed endlessly cheerful, exuberant in ways Yeosang didn’t think he’d ever been, even when he’d been a child with not a single burden on his shoulders.

Between one second and the next, the Wolf became something else entirely, though how the change had happened, Yeosang couldn’t say. He inhaled, and it was a Beast before him. He exhaled, and a man stood in its place, just as tall and imposing as Yunho. His hair was silver like his fur, streaked through with crimson, while his forearms and his feet were stained the same color, reminding Yeosang of his own birthmark, though the color and size of the Wolf’s were much more intense than Yeosang’s. His lips looked painted, they were so richly red. Like Yunho, he too had an aura of darkness about him, something threatening not helped at all by the heavy glare he fixed on Yeosang, considering.

“You should not have been able to function so easily, though?” he rumbled, brow scrunching up in befuddlement. It was a strangely innocent expression, considering the almost cruelty of the statement; it softened up the hard line of his jaw, the sharpness of his eyes. “I haven’t met many humans who could do that, while Yunho’s influence was on them.” He paused, clarifying: “I mean what you did with the bracelet. Wooyoung only had to tell you once, and you did it right away, and mostly on your own, too.”

Yunho pinched at the Wolf’s elbow.

“ _ Ouch _ !” He yelped and spun to face him, furious. “Wh— it is the  _ truth _ ! How many generals and conquerors have we faced that came a hair’s breadth from losing their sanity under only a passing glance? He stood tall under your full attention when he arrived, and again throughout your introduction! It was  _ praise _ !”

“Praise that will  _ spook him _ ! Learn when to hold your tongue, will you? He was scared enough of me without your help,” sniffed Yunho, crossing his arms with a huff like a child not getting his way.

The Wolf whined. “He got over it! I saw him hold your hand!” he argued, grabbing at Yunho’s shoulders and shaking.

Yeosang lifted a hand to hide his smile, snorting softly into his palm and hoping it passed as a cough. It probably didn’t, since Wooyoung’s eyes were sparkling with barely restrained laughter of his own, but the good news was that neither Yunho or Mingi noticed, too busy bickering with one another.

“Are they always this way?” Yeosang asked, from the corner of his mouth.

Wooyoung nodded. “Constantly. The only time they are not is when they are with the Hunt, and only because vulnerability  _ then _ is dangerous enough to be fatal.”

“All right you two,” Hongjoong cut in, rolling his eyes. “I would rather not have to burn you, but I shan’t hesitate to if need be.” The two in question froze, and then separated from each other— having grabbed each other’s arms and begun to wrestle, for whatever reason— heads ducked in shame. Hongjoong raised a brow at the Wolf. “I believe you were introducing yourself, you big oaf? Finish that, mayhap, before you go off on any other tangents.”

The Wolf huffed, but dutifully faced Yeosang once again. “My name is Mingi,” he declared, his gesture grander and more exaggerated than any of the others’, palm not just held out to Yeosang, but flung out in a wide sweep. Yeosang took a careful, barely noticeable step back to avoid getting hit by it. “And I promise you by my fur and my fangs that nothing in this realm will hurt you under my watch.”

“Mingi-yah, Mingi-yah. Do you know, you looked like a dunce just now.” The voice was a new one, one of the few who hadn’t yet spoken. Yeosang found its source...

Squatting by the fire, poking at it idly with a stick like an idiot faced with a sleeping bear, was a Swan Maiden. Or, well, Yeosang  _ assumed _ it was a Swan Maiden. Though  _ he _ was no maiden at all, the feathered cloak draped over his shoulders, white as freshly fallen snow, his free hand protectively curled over the edge of it, was a dead giveaway, as were the patches of matching feathers scattered over his skin.

Hongjoong sidled over to Yeosang’s other side as Mingi erupted into a new stream of complaints, picking up a branch of his own and poking at the Swan’s stick and blocking off his movements like that would serve as vengeance. From across the bonfire, Seonghwa was watching, mouth pursed with disapproval or disgust, Yeosang wasn’t sure. Maybe both.

“Watch this,” Hongjoong whispered, with a smirk. He snapped his fingers, and the fire sparked and popped, swelling a little larger. If the Swan and Mingi both hadn’t had such quick reflexes, leaping back with curses on Their tongues, They likely would have been singed.

Wooyoung shrieked with laughter, bending double with the force of his amusement at Their expense. Hongjoong was smug, practically preening where he stood, and Seonghwa and Yunho were both giggling. The other Fae, still yet unknown to Yeosang, was chuckling, too, the sound like the mirthful bubble of a brook, or the burble of a creek.

Yeosang himself was snickering, though he was trying his best to smother it, just out of courtesy. He wasn’t Their friend, after all, not even one of Their kind, and it was the least he could do, even if his attempts… were not as successful, probably, as they could have been.

The Swan stomped his foot. “Hongjoong-hyung!” 

“I warned you I would burn if necessary,” said Hongjoong, remorseless, shrugging his shoulders. His elbow brushed against Yeosang’s with the motion. He was so warm, the heat lingering even after the contact had passed.

“You warned Mingi and Yunho! Not me!”

“You heard it! You  _ must _ have known it applied to everyone.”

“Not fair! And you could have burned my cloak!”

“All things considered, though, hyung,” spoke the other unnamed Fae, trilled, really, voice musical, “You really should have known better than to have it on while playing with fire in the first place.”

“I— you—” 

Seonghwa caught at the Swan’s wrist before he could go chase after him. “None of that. Come now, he  _ is _ right, and anyway, you should be giving your name about now, or if not, then something for our human to call you by.”

The Swan looked ready to fight for a second, swaying on his feet like he might just break free of Seonghwa’s grip and disregard him completely. In the next instant, he sighed, deflating slightly. “...I suppose,” he mumbled.

Seonghwa let him go.

He whirled to smile at Yeosang, graceful and balletic, then dipped forward in a bow, fingers light against his heart. “I am San,” he chirped. 

San winked as he straightened up. “At your service.”

Yeosang felt heat rise to his cheeks, and, unsure, made a shallow bow of his own. “I— and I at yours…?” he stammered. That was a sensible response, right? 

San giggled, eyes creasing into little crescents, cheeks dimpling. Yeosang felt himself grow warmer, though Hongjoong had long since moved elsewhere. There was just something flustering about being at the center of San’s attention, this much he could tell, even this early into meeting him. He seemed the type to put his all into everything, even if it was the simple act of conversation. “Cute,” he cooed. “Very well then. On my feathered cloak, my irreplaceable object of power: I promise to keep you safe.”

It was probably a good idea to stop gaping at San like an idiot, Yeosang told himself, but he couldn’t make himself actually look away, entirely enthralled by this Fae. He didn’t know why, exactly, San captivated him in such a way none of the others had— They were all sights to behold, of course, all beautiful… but San… 

San… that meant mountain, didn’t it? An odd name for a Swan, when all the stories, when the very thought of Them produced images of flight, of freedom spread in the form of elegant cloud-white feathers. Mountains were practically the opposite, rooted and firm and unyielding. Grounded. Still, something about it seemed simply  _ right _ . It rung true, the magic resonating with Yeosang in such a way that he knew, were he to get to know San better, he would find him to be much steadier than his first impressions. He wanted—

Wooyoung waved a hand in front of Yeosang’s face, and though Yeosang registered it, he couldn’t bring himself to care quite so much, nor to respond. “San,” Wooyoung huffed.

“What?” San fluttered his lashes, innocent. He was possibly the sweetest thing Yeosang had ever laid eyes on. “Is something the matter, Wooyoungie?”

“You know what the matter is!” Wooyoung complained. “Seonghwa-hyung—”

Seonghwa rolled his eyes, but warned, “Sannie, release your pull, won’t you?”

The Swan pouted, and Yeosang felt himself blush more than he already was at the thought of how  _ pretty _ he was, how delicate the shape of his mouth— “I cannot help it, you know. It is just a part of being a Swan to—”

“Yes, but you can certainly help whether you help it along or not. We know what your magic is like, and it is hardly this strong.”

Hongjoong added, “Not to mention…” His eyes slid briefly over to Yeosang, pointedly. “Our human seems to have a natural resistance to magic to begin with. Mingi’s observation earlier was far from unfounded.”

San heaved a sigh, and just like that, the haze clouding Yeosang’s mind cleared. He still felt the allure, of course, but he no longer was so helpless to it. He frowned, turning to Wooyoung. “What…? Why…?” He glanced at San, who looked a little sheepish, his smile shy, now. “What just happened?”

“He is a Swan, as I am sure you can tell. Swan Maiden, I believe you humans call them, though that seems rather… assuming. They are not all women, after all,” Wooyoung rambled. “But anyhow, they have a natural charm to them. It often mesmerizes humans, especially men, which is why you get all those tales of men stealing away Swan cloaks in exchange for brides, hiding away in the bushes like barbarians while they bathe?” Wooyoung’s nose wrinkled. “He can actually strengthen the charm as he pleases, and that is what he was doing. He should not have, but… it was technically not hurtful to you, and…”

“But why?”

Instead of Wooyoung, it was San who answered. “Why not? You are a very attractive man, you know. Enchanting, even.” His smile this time was soft and gentle. “And intriguing. You are stronger than you appear. I wanted to see how much it would take to entrance you— I was surprised. It took more out of me than I would like to admit.”

Yeosang mumbled a thank you, hiding his flushed face in his hands.

A thought occurred to him, then. “Wait, Hongjoong-ssi, what do you mean?” he asked, looking up to find the Fire Fae.

“Hm?”

“About me having magic resistance.”

Hongjoong’s eyebrows rose. “Exactly what I said. Mingi and Yunho are partners in the Hunt, so Mingi has seen the worst and best that Yunho is capable of. What he said to you earlier may have seemed an exaggeration, but I assure you it was not. You could likely withstand a little more magic than many of your peers before it truly took effect.”

“But I— that doesn’t make sense,” Yeosang muttered. “I have a knack, surely—”

Seonghwa held up a hand, and Yeosang fell silent. “That only furthers our point. A knack is a sign of magic in your blood, though how old and how diluted it is, no one can know. The more magical you are, the more likely you have a resistance to it; having it, after all, means you can acclimate to it, and build up a tolerance. Normal humans do not have that chance.”

Yeosang supposed that made sense. Who was he to argue anyway?

"There is only me left, I take it?" The words were sung— truly sung— notes seeming to hang in the air around them longer than they had any right to. A reminder of what exactly they were doing before San had used his powers, they drew everyone’s attention to the task at hand.

Yeosang found the speaker with his gaze and himself meeting clear blue eyes, at the corners of which were two shining black pearls smaller than Yeosang’s pinky nails, embedded into the flesh, as far as Yeosang could tell. Was it natural? Or self-inflicted? Yeosang would believe either; the Folk could be strange, Their ways largely beyond a mortal’s grasp. 

There was another pearl, Yeosang noticed, this one much larger. It sat at the hollow of the Fae’s throat, about as big as a silver coin. If it was indeed there by choice, Yeosang wondered how that must have hurt.

“The name I most often give is Undine,” crooned the Fae, scattered rose gold scales sparkling from his arms, his cheeks, his legs, barely covered as they were with wispy, almost-gossamer fabric that seemed to dance in the night breeze. Yeosang was fascinated. “But the name that is  _ mine _ is Jongho.” When he stretched out his hand in offering, name in his grasp, there was no extra flair, no dramatics, no inexplicable pressure or spell to ensnare Yeosang until one of the others helped him shake himself to his senses. It was plain, almost ordinary, really, and what a relief that was. “I swear on the clear freshwater pools I call home to protect you, from myself and others.” There was… something about his voice. It was almost hypnotic, soothing; it gave off a feeling much like San’s pull, except—

Except where San had encouraged his magic to work as it pleased, Jongho seemed to be suppressing it, the tug at Yeosang’s consciousness a buzzing undercurrent, certainly, but manageable. Ignorable, if Yeosang so chose. 

“Are you a siren?” Yeosang blurted. It made the most sense. Jongho’s voice was clearly the source of his power, and even just holding it back seemed unnatural to him, made him sound faraway or muffled just the slightest, like Yeosang was hearing from underneath the water.

Jongho’s mouth curled in a small smile. “Something like that. I do not belong to the sea, though, like sirens do.” He rolled his lip between his teeth. “Do you remember when I told you that I call myself Undine, when introducing myself to others?”

Yeosang nodded.

“You could call me that, if you must put a name to my kind. It is the name we all use, though it is not what we would call ourselves.” He nodded to himself, satisfied with his own explanation.

Yeosang considered that. “So what would you call yourselves? Even if I cannot use it myself, I am curious to hear.” He paused, then tacked on, “Should you not mind sharing it, that is.”

Jongho chuckled. “I would not mind, if there were anything to share. There is no such thing, though. We are not a very collective species, so we associate with each other only so much as we need to to ensure we  _ do not _ associate.” At Yeosang’s blank stare, he explained further: “We can be quite territorial, so the only thing we ever meet for is to draw the boundary lines clear. After that, we do our best to never meet. Really, the only thing we share with each other other than our power is the name Undine.”

“Oh.”

There was silence for a moment, ringing with all the knowledge Yeosang had been gifted, the treasured names he had been entrusted with. So heavy were they, with history and trust— these seven names, fourteen syllables. And yet… how light they were, too. They did not feel like burdens, though one would expect them to, considering all the weight of the commitment they represented.

No, they were not burdens at all. They were gifts.

And now, it was Yeosang’s turn to present one of his own.

“May I?” he asked of Hongjoong, deferring to him almost on instinct, as the others had. Hongjoong dipped his head in agreement. “My name is Yeosang,” he said, smiling bashfully. “And it is lovely to meet you all.”

/////

Introductions finally complete, Yeosang found that integrating into the group was surprisingly… smooth. He didn’t need to bite his tongue so much as he did with his peers, either— he’d tried to, at first, but about the third time he cut off his snark with an apology in its place, Seonghwa had just smiled and told him it was unnecessary. After that, he spoke his mind more openly, even when it was a cutting remark— Yunho and San usually wound up in hysterics, they found it so funny.

He didn’t wind up cursed, either, so that was lovely. They stopped being such a distant, grand embodiment of Them, The Folk, and became… simply  _ them _ . Themselves. 

  
  
  


They talked, conversation between them all ebbing and flowing as easily as the tides. Yeosang was happy to tell them about himself and his life, and in turn, they seemed just as willing to tell him stories of their own.

For instance, Jongho spoke of how he had long since abandoned his kind’s game of luring hapless mortals, relocating himself to an out of the way lake where he could sing as he pleased. The few times he did ensnare a human, Jongho had simply hidden until they left. He liked to sing, very much so. Liked to test himself to see what notes he could reach. He hoped to one day find a truly secluded body of water where he could sing without restraining himself, and not have to worry about accidentally dragging anyone to drown.

“There  _ is _ a spectacular underground lake just a day’s walk east that would suit me perfectly, but it’s already  _ occupied _ ,” sulked Jongho. “I  _ would _ fight him to the death for it, but Hongjoong-hyung says I should not.”

“He is old, even by our standards, Jongho. Let that undine alone for his remaining decades, then you can claim it. No one else wants it,” Hongjoong chided, on cue.

Yeosang had leaned forward, curious. “How old is that?”

“Hm… I have quite forgotten. Seonghwa—”

“Seven centuries, at least,” Seonghwa answered. ”There are accounts of him in the elven libraries dating back to about then, though it is possible he is older.”

That… was old indeed. Incomprehensible, almost.

Hongjoong nodded. “That sounds about right. He has not aged in appearance, of course, would not be much of an undine if he did, but his mind is slipping. He loses track of the days and the things he has done. Sometimes misplaces entire years.”

“Ah, I see,” Yeosang said. He didn’t really. He didn’t think he ever would. Time to him was so limited, unlike for these Folk for whom time stretched nigh on endlessly, with few responsibilities to tend to but that which they imposed on themselves, it wasn’t something he could comprehend. But what else could he say?

/////

At a different point in the night, Yeosang watched as Wooyoung and San chased each other around the fire, shrieking and playing a game of tag like the youth Yeosang knew back home. The only difference was that Wooyoung and San were much older than even Yeosang, and also that they had magic they kept taking advantage of, Wooyoung raising tree roots with a wave of a hand to snag at San’s ankles, or San slipping his arms through the sleeves of his coat to shift, taking flight and honking tauntingly at Wooyoung below until Wooyoung glared and snapped his fingers so a tree branch would swat the Swan from behind.

“They better not get injured,” groused Seonghwa. “I tire of healing them so often.”

Yunho snorted. “Hyung, you just want to play too.”

If Yeosang was expecting a denial, he didn’t get one.

Instead, Seonghwa pursed his lips, crossing his arms over his chest. “Perhaps,” he mumbled. “But they refuse to let me. They say it is unfair because I move too fast.” He huffed. “It is hardly my fault that elves evolved the way they did, with enhanced senses and movement. I want to enjoy myself too!”

Yeosng raised his brows at the display of childishness from who had until now, proven the most mature other than Hongjoong.

“Seonghwa is older than us all in age, but since he is part human, he was not permitted to leave his citadel for a long while,” Hongjoong told Yeosang in a whisper, as Seonghwa stomped over to the playing Fae to bicker with them. “So he is much more the baby of the group than Jongho, really, though Jongho is technically the youngest.”

“He was sheltered?”

“Yes. More for his sake than anything. He had to learn how to carry himself and wield his gifts as well as he possibly could, especially with the weakness of his human blood.” Yeosang was stung, slightly, more on instinct than anything, at his race being dismissed so easily, but he had no doubt Hongjoong was right. Humans  _ were _ weaker, and surrounded by pure Fae as he was, Seonghwa must have had to endure a great many trials to make up for the gap. “He has grown powerful because of it, though. He can put Wooyoung and San, both full-blooded Fae, through a decent amount of hardship trying to keep up with him or stay out of his reach.”

Yeosang watched as Seonghwa, unable— or mayhap unwilling— to control himself any longer, leapt up and began to join in the chase. The end result was a rather hilarious sight: San and Wooyoung, with a nod at one another, chose to work in concert against Seonghwa instead, a temporary truce formed as forest and Swan both harried at the elf and tripped him up, laughing long and loud under the moon.

Hongjoong rolled his eyes. “Imbeciles, all of them,” he mumbled, but his voice was fond, affection deeply rooted in every word.

/////

When an unfamiliar Fae wandered too close to their little knot of the woods, Yeosang found himself carefully surrounded before he even realized his companions had moved. Wooyoung sat himself down to Yeosang’s right, knees nudging lightly against Yeosang’s own, and Mingi, returned to his Wolf shape and warming himself by the bonfire, woke from his slumber only to take three steps around it and flop down onto his side in front of Yeosang. He yawned, flashed pointed, vicious fangs that sparked in the light. To Yeosang’s left, Jongho had settled, asking in quiet, dulcet tones if Yeosang might be willing to teach him a human song, as he hadn’t heard any in ages. Yeosang was halfway through an apologetic admittance that he didn’t know any songs beyond his mother’s lullaby for him as a child when San joined in as well, came over and carefully tucked his feathered cloak over Yeosang’s shoulders.

“It suits you!” San cheered, leaning over Yeosang’s shoulder to grin at him, paying no heed to Wooyoung’s indignant yelp about hair in his mouth. Yeosang froze at the unfamiliar feeling of it, the weight and warmth across his back, and then, as he recognized what it was…

“I— what—” he sputtered, spinning to face the Fae.

Or, well, he  _ tried _ to face the Fae. Jongho and San both placed hands on his shoulders, pressed with enough force to keep him from twisting. “Do not,” said Jongho, softly, with less restraint on his magic than anything he’d said all night, and Yeosang felt it tug at him, felt it tamp down his urge to argue or otherwise go against the undine.

“It is all right,” San whispered, hands stroking lightly at his cloak, an absent gesture, perhaps, to assure himself it was still there. “Relax. I trust you to keep it safe, and I trust the others to be able to retrieve it even should you do your worst. Besides,” he added, smirking, “the most you could do is take it in hopes of holding me hostage, but tonight, you have no way home, and I would hardly need to be coerced to spend some of my lifetime with you.”

Yeosang knew his face had gone red at the flirting. That too, was an unfamiliar sensation, you see. No one in the town was quite so bold, quite so direct with their attempts to woo him, if they bothered at all. Even if San seemed largely flippant about it, it was still a compliment. 

“But why can’t I?”

“You mustn’t,” said Wooyoung. Mingi, likely in agreement, gave a small bark.

Yeosang sighed, but didn’t protest any further, instead shutting his eyes and trying to  _ listen— _

Yunho’s voice was there, unshakably firm: “What we do with the mortal isn’t any of your concern, nor anyone else’s.”

“Is it not?” giggled an unfamiliar voice, faded and wispy, like dandelion fluff blown out into the breeze. “He is in Fae territory, and I have not seen one of his kind in centuries! Surely I could just—”

“No,” said Hongjoong, and Yeosang did not have to have him in his sights to know the leader’s eyes were burning embers, challenging the speaker to try him and fail. “He has made pacts with us, and we shan’t suffer needlessly by the old magic’s hand, simply to allow you some fleeting pleasure.”

“Pacts? So early in the evening? We are at a revel—  _ the _ revel— and you bind yourself, on the night you ought to be most free?”

“Perhaps we do not consider commitment so insurmountable an obstacle to enjoyment, pixie.” That was Seonghwa, almost uninterested, but for the edge he imparted his statement with.

Behind him, San snickered. “That was  _ harsh _ . And from  _ him _ of all people...”

“ _ Pixie… _ !” The dandelion-voice gasped, outraged. “Has your heritage made you so blind, so  _ stupid _ as to—” Abruptly, the voice cut out, replaced instead by a yelp of pain, and the thump of a body hitting the ground with a feeble, plaintive wail.

“Ah, my mistake,” said Yunho, sounding only vaguely sorry. “It is so hard to rein in my Hunter’s aura. You will need to forgive me.” Yeosang could hear him pace further away. “Please, continue your conversation.”

There were a few sniffles, a timid apology, and then the intruder scampered off, or so it seemed. Yeosang didn’t really know.

None of the Fae around him left their spots.

/////

“You can pet him, you know.”

Yeosang jolted, lifting his head to blink at Yunho. “Pardon?”

The Hunter’s eyes creased in amusement, lips tilted up at the corners. “Mingi. You have been somewhat staring at him for the past minute. He  _ is _ just as soft as he looks, I promise. And that is not blood on his fur but his natural coloring.” Under his breath, so low Yeosang knew he wasn’t meant to catch it, Yunho added, “This time.”

Well… that was… reassuring…? In a sense…?

“I… will he not be offended?” 

Yunho shook his head, grinning even wider. “He likes the attention. If you compliment him while you do it as well, he will be over the moon. Just ask his permission. If you do not get growled at, that is likely an approval.”

Though Yunho said that, he didn’t wait for Yeosang, squatting down beside the Wolf instead and doing the asking for him. “Can Yeosang pet you, Minki?” he murmured, the nickname full of fondness. His fingers raked gently through the Wolf’s fur, and Mingi’s tail thumped against the ground happily. Yunho glanced up at Yeosang, so much warmth in his eyes that Yeosang thought it was almost a blessing that Yunho’s aura made things run cold; otherwise, the sheer amount of kindness and joy might warm those around him to the point of causing them to overheat. “Come, let me show you where he likes it best.”

Yeosang hesitated, but with a nudge from Wooyoung, still huddled close by his side, he approached, dropping into a crouch next to Yunho. He let the Hunter take his hand and lift it gently, resting it behind Mingi’s ear.

“Just scratch lightly here. There you go.”

Mingi’s tail was wagging, and Yeosang couldn’t help but giggle at it, at how ridiculous this situation was and yet how wonderful. Of course, that Mingi was so endearing made it all the more amazing. “You are soft, Mingi-ssi,” he noted, marveling at the fur like silk beneath his fingers. “I don’t think I have ever touched any creature’s fur that was quite this lovely.” The tail wagged faster, and Yeosang bit back a snort as Yunho met his eyes, eyebrows dancing.

“He is easy to please, is he not? Here, try over here too,” he said, taking Yeosang’s hand in a loose grip and guiding it to a spot at Mingi’s side. Yeosang did, and Mingi really seemed to like it, content to bask in the attention— at least, he was, until Yunho added, conspirtorially, “He likes to think he is so cool and intimidating, but he is much closer to an oversized pup, isn’t he?”

In an instant, Mingi jumped to his feet, already shifted back into a man. “Excuse me? I am  _ not _ a  _ pup _ , thank you.” He glared. “I am a  _ Wolf _ , one of the strongest beasts in this forest and you know it.”

“Do I?” asked Yunho, lashes fluttering in an excess display of innocence. “I seem to have forgotten.”

“Yah!” And Mingi was off, tackling Yunho into the dirt. They were laughing, Hunter and Wolf both, snickering as they pushed and pulled at one another, rolled over and over each other trying to gain the upper hand. Jongho joined in the fray too, soon enough, jostled by the pair as they passed him and playfully offended for it. There was much yelling, and the others were either laughing or preparing themselves to be inevitably dragged in, by the looks of it (San and Wooyoung, then Hongjoong and Seonghwa, respectively). Yeosang blinked after them, not entirely sure what just happened, but… he smiled. These Fae were funny. He almost didn’t want to leave, come morning.

He kept that thought to himself.

/////

Yeosang quietly shuffled himself to the side, putting some space between himself and Wooyoung. Not because he didn’t enjoy the Fae’s surprising touchiness, but because...

“Ah, sorry,” said Wooyoung, as he realized the problem— a vine that had inched its way around Yeosang’s calf, nearly halfway down it, in fact.

Yeosang shook his head. “Don’t be. It is beautiful, really, I simply that fear that if it grows too much I will not be able to free myself without harming it.” He laughed sheepishly. “Actually, as early as now, I am unsure…”

Wooyoung giggled. “Ah, cute. Hold still, then.” He carefully untangled the vine, urged it by some power to coil around his own arm instead. “There,” he declared. He lifted his head to meet Yeosang’s eyes, gaze soft and impossibly endeared. “Such a gentle soul you have, hm? Tell me, are you a woodsman?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Do I give off that impression?”

“Not exactly,” Wooyoung replied, shrugging. “But I have not seen many men so considerate of the forest and its charges— especially the flora. It is usually only woodsmen, because they know what value and protection the forest gives and the dangers it holds.”

Yeosang hummed. “I see. No, it is nothing so noble as that. I simply have a garden at home, and it is my most constant company. As silly as it must sound, I consider plants friends, so if I can avoid hurting them, I will.” He swept his hair from his eyes, then added, “If I’m being quite honest, tonight is the first time in a long while that I’ve come into the woods at all.”

That seemed to catch the others’ attention, because suddenly, the chatter around them died down, the atmosphere instantly thicker. It wasn’t stifling, but Yeosang regretted letting the last bit slip. Clearly, the Fae were concerned.

“So it was deliberate then,” murmured Seonghwa, brow furrowed. The disappointment in his face was so raw, Yeosang almost felt himself physically ache from it. “I have seen the town you come from many times. I have even lived a short lifetime in it, once, many a decade ago. I know the belief that runs like iron through its veins— you cannot claim to be unaware of us Folk, and what many of our kind are said to do, the dangers we pose. Even if you were a skeptic, surely…” He shook his head, almost frustrated. “I had hoped perhaps you were simply careless in wandering. Why would you be so reckless with your own life?” The others watched him with similarly heavy looks, and they seemed to be trying to communicate by sheer force of will that They thought the same as Seonghwa.

“Would you not miss those you left behind?” Wooyoung demanded, not unkindly, but certainly not calm. “Would you not be missed by them?”

It took Yeosang a moment to find his next words, taken aback by how incensed they all were on his behalf: a mere human whom they’d known but a few hours. They had made him feel more welcome among them than among the people he’d grown up with, but for them to be so attached… what had he done to earn such devotion? “I… I am not very well trusted, back home.”

“For your knack?” asked Wooyoung. “Is it so obvious, to terrify them so?”

Yeosang shook his head with a small snort. “Oh, heavens no. All I can do is find lost things. But I…” he swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “They say I am beautiful. And that I am too honest and unbothered. And that this blemish here—” he tapped at his birthmark, and allowed Wooyoung to ever so sweetly tuck his hair back behind his ear so the others could see it too. “Is from you, the Fae. They say I must… I must belong to you. And so they do not want me.”

“Did you come for that reason? Did you come here, looking to be wanted?” It was Hongjoong who spoke this time, dimming the bonfire with a gesture of his hand so he could meet Yeosang’s gaze squarely from across it. “Did you come here seeking to belong?”

“No, I did not,” Yeosang said. “Not here, at any rate.”

Hongjoong was satisfied. “Good. You know your limits, then. This is not a realm meant for you. To know that is your greatest defense. It makes you wary.”

“But hyung—”

“I  _ know _ , Wooyoung-ah,” said Hongjoong, as Seonghwa put a quelling hand on Wooyoung’s shoulder to keep him from rising from his seat. “He is lucky. He has found a place with us, now, does he not? Though he did not set out looking for it.”

He glanced around the circle of them, and Yeosang did too. He found them all smiling at him, or nodding along. 

Something heavy, something aching, stirred in Yeosang’s chest and the sight. It was not a bad kind of heavy. Not a bad kind of ache at all.

It was good. 

Yeosang could not identify yet, just what it was. But he knew it was good.

“You do,” said Wooyoung, grinning brightly, cupping Yeosang’s cheeks in his palms for a brief second. “You have a place with us, Yeosangie.”

Yeosang swallowed down the lump in his throat, where he knew there must be an ugly (though heartfelt) sob trying to break free. “Thank you.”

“So what  _ did _ you come for?” Mingi asked, then. “You admit it was on purpose, but what purpose was it?”

“I… I wanted to prove none of this was real. That they had no reason to scorn me. I have never hurt them. Your kind have not made Themselves known to us in ages. I didn’t know what else it would take to prove to them that I am just as human as they are,” Yeosang murmured, quietly. He gave a small, self-deprecating chuckle. “It was not a very well thought out plan, I admit. Coming here. Even if I had been right, and nothing had happened, well, what then? I have no witnesses. Then I will return, unscathed from a midsummer’s night in the Faery Ring? It will only cement their perspective of me.” 

Wooyoung bit his lip, frowning at the earth beneath his feet. “Will?” he echoed. “You will still return to them?”

Yeosang smiled ruefully. “I have caused you enough trouble.”

“You have been no trouble at all,” insisted San, staunch. “We  _ like _ you. Let us keep you, please? We would treasure you, unlike—”

“San,” chided Yunho. “He is not a pet.” He curled light fingers around Mingi’s wrist, Yeosang noticed. Almost protective. Like he was recalling something, a similar sort of discussion from long ago. Mingi slid his hand up and laced his fingers with Yunho’s instead.

San immediately shrunk, pouting. “I did not intend it that way,” he protested softly. “I just—”

“We know, hyung,” Jongho cooed, curling a gentle arm around San’s shoulders. “He is just reminding you to be careful of your words. You know that, right?” San nodded into Jongho’s chest, clearly dejected. Yeosang was touched that San cared enough about him to react that way.

“What San is trying to say…” said Wooyoung, tapping lightly at Yeosang’s elbow to regain his attention. “Is that we would like it if you stayed. Really. We enjoy your company.”

“I know,” Yeosang said. And he  _ did _ know. Perhaps They were playing a longer game than he could see, fooling him into a false sense of safety… but he didn’t think so. They seemed so genuine, so kind. So willing to go out of their way to make him comfortable and keep him safe. He smiled. “Trust me, I know. You have made it abundantly clear.”

“But…?” Hongjoong prompted.

Yeosang sighed. “But it is true. I do not belong here. I’m a mortal, and I have a life… and even if they try to chase me off— that town, those people… that’s home. I cannot leave it behind just like that.” He shook his head. “And really, if I ignore it, well, they will let it be eventually. They always do.”

The Fae exchanged uncertain glances.

“Well,” said Seonghwa, finally. “We cannot hold you against your will. Would not, even that we could.”

“If returning is what you would choose…” continued Hongjoong. “Then return you shall. Morning should be on its way in but a few hours. We will simply have to make the most of the rest of our time with you, hm?”

/////

So, the night wore on, and though Yeosang discovered a great many things about the fae who’d effectively adopted him, most startling and wonderful of all was this: They were humane. They were almost  _ human _ , even, in personality if not in physiology.

Hongjoong set fire to  _ everything _ . He inspired passion in others, love and fierce loyalty. Physically too, if he held onto anything too long, or got too worked up, he was prone to lighting them aflame and subsequently flailing until it was extinguished— that is, if the others didn’t put it out for him, not even bothering to bat an eye.

Seonghwa was sweet and nurturing, balanced out the group’s chaos seemingly instinctively, but at unexpected moments, joined in the ridiculousness without hesitation, childish curiosity and excitement softening all his edges. He was adorable, truly, he was, even if his cutesy antics sometimes made Yeosang cringe.

Yunho was sunshine incarnate, and if sometimes, in Yeosang’s peripheral vision, his form looked more like a skeleton, all bone and no flesh, well… Yeosang could easily ignore it in favor of the Hunter’s effervescent smiles and sweet laughter. And when Mingi had pestered him into showing off his skill with the bow, Yeosang should have been frightened— he shot so precisely, so rapidly… but Yeosang felt only awe, only elation for this Fae, who himself had announced that they were  _ friends _ , despite only knowing each other a single night. 

San was a wildcard; sometimes he was tentative and gentle, almost meek. Other times, he crowed so loud it was a wonder if the whole forest hadn’t heard him, movements big and flashy, quicker than Yeosang’s eye could follow. He could look downright demonic, if he really tried. He was touchy, clingy, even, always leaning himself up against one of the other Fae or Yeosang himself, or else drawing them into his embrace.

Mingi was much more laid back, preferred to stay a Wolf and simply watch the goings on or ignore them entirely, seemingly always a blink away from falling asleep. When he did decide to play, though, it turned out he could be as boisterous as the rest of them, his lanky limbs making him more of a spectacle than he already was. He seemed to be the butt of most of the jokes, and it was a little scary how in tune he could be with Yunho— to Yeosang, at least. He also proved time and time again to be far more clever than he liked to appear. Yeosang liked him, but he would rather not admit it if he could help it. (He could.)

Woouyoung… if it weren’t for Wooyoung, Yeosang’s situation would likely have been much more dire, this, he knew, and for that, Wooyoung had a special soft spot in Yeosang’s conscience. But if not for that… Wooyoung was by far the loudest of them all, and the most mischievous. He liked to play pranks and toss light-hearted insults, crossed lines without even meaning to. But he was always apologetic if he did, always cheerful if he didn’t. He was so much fun to be around, and he had a way of making you feel so ridiculously cared for… For all that he was infuriating, he was impossible not to adore, and he  _ knew _ it. (That was the worst part— that Wooyoung knew, Seonghwa had whispered conspiratorially, as the Fae in question poked and prodded at San until they were once again chasing circles around the fire. Seonghwa shook his head as Yeosang laughed to himself.)

As for Jongho, he seemed stoic, at first, but he was far from it. He was admittedly more serious than some of the others, but he could be just as playful, just as willing to mock and tease. He was scarily strong, and according to Mingi’s claims, an undine had no business being that powerful physically, when they didn’t even really need to hunt for their food. He liked fruit, and he liked music. He liked a good competition (and he almost never lost them, if they were games of skill). And yet, at other times, he was cute, pouting to get his way, perhaps, or unable to stop a giggle from bubbling up in his throat at some joke or other someone had made.

Yeosang learned, as the dawn crawled ever closer, to love each and every one of them, and he wished quietly that the night would keep its hold on the sky as long as it could, that he might have an excuse to remain just a little longer.

He knew he needed no reasons. He could easily change his mind; they would not shun him. Had they not told him, just a few hours ago, that he was welcome among them?

But no, that was not the issue at all. The issue… the issue was that he was, quite simply, afraid.

There were too many unknowns, and Yeosang had too little strength and knowledge with which to protect himself against them, so he maintained his silence, and steeled himself for the farewells he would have to make.

Over the horizon, the sun began to rise.

/////

The Fae— no, they were not just ‘the Fae’, anymore; they were friends. 

Friends. Yeosang had so few of them back home. Here, he had seven. Seven kind, compassionate friends, where he had expected to either find death or nothing at all. 

It was funny how fate worked.

Yeosang’s friends waited until the sun had well and truly risen, and they were sure most of the revel had died down, before bidding him goodbye, one by one, folding him in tight embraces and quietly gifting him with soft words of blessing and promise.

“Come, we should be safe to go, now,” said Seonghwa, gently, as Jongho released his hold on Yeosang. “If you stay any longer, I cannot promise the door will see you out the same way it saw you in.”

“He means,” piped up Wooyoung, with a small roll of his eyes, “That the timeflow here may change, as it is wont to do. If you want your old life, we should go before it does.”

That was a mildly terrifying prospect. One Yeosang hadn’t even known was real. “How do we know it hasn’t yet?”

“The forest told me,” said Wooyoung, linking his arm with Yeosang’s and starting to walk, leaving the others behind.

Seonghwa curled a hand over Yeosang’s other elbow. “We would have left earlier, but if another, less benevolent Fae saw you, they could and most likely  _ would _ have persuaded the door to behave differently. It would have spat you out at a different time than you would have liked. Or perhaps changed you, somehow, irrevocably.”

“If that happened, could you not help me?” Yeosang asked.

The two Fae tasked with escorting him exchanged a look. “We would certainly try,” Wooyoung replied, a beat later. “But we could not guarantee…”

Seonghwa sighed. “There are all sorts of ways they could have enchanted the passage, dear Yeosang, and it is entirely possible it would have kept us from following, or only affected you. Or kept us from knowing anything had gone amiss at all. The thing about the revels, you see, is that the Fae that come are not always those that live here; if it was something powerful, something unfamiliar to us…”

Yeosang felt guilt churning in his stomach, for how clearly apologetic and troubled Seonghwa and Wooyoung both seemed at the prospect. “No, no, I understand. I’m sorry, truly. Such a question is irrelevant, and you owe me nothing.”

“We swore to protect you,” Wooyoung retorted. “We owe you that, inasmuch as we are able to grant it. And had we the strength to foresee all the possibilities and make everything certain, we would.”

Before Yeosang could reply, Seonghwa pulled them to a stop, standing about three feet from the burrow that had led Yeosang to this world of the Fae, what seemed like a lifetime ago— despite it being but the night before.

“We have arrived,” Seonghwa murmured, voice grave. “I will take my leave, now.” He turned to Yeosang and pressed a tender kiss to his brow. “No doubt the others are waiting, and you and Wooyoung should have some time to yourselves. Stay safe, Yeosang, and know that from time to time, I will be watching over you, and you may call on me anytime you have need of me. I am sure the others will say the same.” He gave Yeosang one last smile, and then let him go, turning and vanishing back into the woods.

“Thank you!” Yeosang called out, after Seonghwa’s retreating figure. He got no response, but he was sure— absolutely  _ sure— _ he had been heard and acknowledged, though how he felt that, he couldn’t explain.

And then it was just him and Wooyoung. 

Wooyoung hesitated, and then reluctantly drew away, placing some distance between them— but not before taking Yeosang’s face in his hands, so sweet, so careful, and brushing sweet kisses over his cheeks. “We have known you but a blink, and then you will be gone,” he lamented, smiling sadly. “But to have known you at all, we were blessed.”

“You make it sound like I am on my deathbed,” chuckled Yeosang, though his eyes stung with tears he struggled to hold back. “I will just be there. You know where to find me. Maybe the lot of you, in coming to visit me, could remind the town of just why we claim the Folk live among us.”

“Mayhap,” laughed Wooyoung. “Mayhap.” He shook his head, sighing. “But unlikely. We do not count time as you do. We cannot promise, however much we would like.” Yeosang watched as Wooyoung’s throat bobbed on a heavy swallow. “But you do know, yes? That we meant it, when we offered you a place among us. We are not so fickle, that we would forget a commitment such as that— should you ever choose to return to us… you would be welcome. All you would need to do is call out for one of us when you enter the burrow. We will hear you.”

“I believe you,” breathed Yeosang, taking Wooyoung’s hands and squeezing them in reassurance. Wooyoung met his gaze searchingly, as if he needed to ascertain that it was true, that Yeosang did believe him.

He found what he was looking for, as Yeosang knew he would. He took another step back, and Yeosang let him go. “Seonghwa was right. Any of us… we will try to watch over you in what ways we can. Should you ever need anything…”

Yeosang smiled. “I know, Wooyoung-ssi. Thank you. To all of you, but especially you— for finding me, and taking me in.”

Wooyoung returned his smile. “And thank you for coming with me, and letting us take you in.” He paused, sighing one last time. “You should go. The doorway is getting restless, waiting. Goodbye, Yeosang.”

“Goodbye.”

Yeosang took a deep breath to steady himself, then, with one last wave to the Forest Fae, turned and entered the burrow once more, crawling into it just as he did the first time. 

Between one inhale and the next, he found himself returned to the clearing in his own world— this he knew for sure, because Wooyoung no longer stood before him, and the air no longer felt so brimming with power, so rich with life.

Yeosang felt a pang of sadness in his heart for it.

He pushed himself to his feet and dusted himself off slowly, feeling as if he was in a dream…

It was time to go home.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeosang's homecoming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> working on the second part is taking longer than planned, and I might give the fic some time to breathe so I can come back to it with a fresher mindset... didn't want to leave you all hanging though, so I split up part 2 into shorter chapters. here's the first half of it! i hope you like it!

It was about noon when Yeosang arrived home. His garden remained a wreck since he hadn’t cleaned it at all before his ill-advised excursion to the woods, flies buzzing noisily over the crushed fruit as it all rotted under the too-hot midday sun. He had a lot of work ahead if he wanted to return his little plot to its previous pristine state, but… it could wait.

First, he needed sleep. He hadn’t gotten any the night before, with the Fae as he was, and it was taking its toll, fogging up his vision and stealing away his balance and clarity.

He would deal with everything else when he woke up.

/////

“Hongjoong-ssi?”

Yeosang found himself in the clearing as if he’d just reemerged from the Land Under the Hill after saying his farewells… except this time, Hongjoong was seated on the well’s wooden cover, legs crossed beneath him. 

“Hello, Yeosang,” greeted the Fae, hopping down from his perch. “I just wanted to see for myself that you made it home safe— you must have, to sleep so soundly.”

“Am I sleeping?” Yeosang frowned. Was he? He… no, no, Hongjoong was right. He’d made it home. Why else would he remember leaving the realm the first time? 

Hongjoong smiled at him knowingly. “You know the answer to that, I see.” He glanced around them. “You dream in such vivid detail, Yeosang,” said Hongjoong, stepping up to the edge of the treeline and holding an arm out, watching the sunlight as it filtered through the leaves and played against his skin, all shades of gold and gray shadow, dancing in the springtime breeze. “The colors are so bright. The shapes so sharp.”

Yeosang didn’t know what to make of that. Was it a compliment? Should he thank him? But it was not something within his control.

Instead, he asked, “Do you visit many dreams, Hongjoong-ssi?”

“You can drop the ‘-ssi,’ you do know this? I do not mind if you call me hyung, as the others do.”

“Hyung, then,” corrected Yeosang, with a small smile.

Hongjoong grinned back at him, clearly happy with the change. “The answer is no, not really. Most Fae can, but it is harder for some than others, especially when we do not hone it as a skill. There are few whose dreams I would be curious about. But I wanted to check on you, as I said.”

“Well, here I am,” said Yeosang, with a small laugh. “Thank you. For caring to come. For last night. For everything.”

The Fae waved a hand dismissively. “Wooyoung passed on your gratitude, Yeosang. You need not say it so often,” he reprimanded, though not unkindly. “I should go. You need your rest. I have a feeling you will not get much of it, later— I can feel it pressing at the edges of this dream.”

“Is it so obvious?”

“Only because you care so much about it,” Hongjoong explained. “I will not pry. Rest well, Yeosang.”

With those parting words, Hongjoong vanished— as did the rest of Yeosang’s dream.

/////

“—sang!  _ Kang Yeosang _ !”

Yeosang groaned and cracked his eyes open…

Just in time to have them doused in a bucket full of water.

Yeosang yelped, bolting upright, suddenly enough that Keonhee (the culprit; of course, he should have known) jerked back with a scream of his own, tripping over his own feet to land on the floor. “What—  _ Why— _ ”

Keonhee legitimately looked like he was ready to cry, staring at Yeosang with wide, sparkling eyes and trembling lips. “Your garden… your house… and then you wouldn’t wake up and—”

Yeosang sighed. “I know, hyung. I saw it last night.” He held out a hand, and after a second, Keonhee took it and allowed Yeosang to pull him to his feet. Yeosang took advantage of his grip on Keonhee to tug him another step forward, right into his (very soaked) embrace. A form of petty revenge just as much as it was a gesture of comfort.

“I was worried. It’s so late in the day— you  _ never _ sleep in this long, and the… the  _ carnage _ , you would never have left it so long, and…” Keonhee all but cried, wrapping his long limbs around Yeosang in his best impression of an octopus, even if the cramped quarters must have made it difficult, and no doubt uncomfortable.

“Shh, hyung, I understand, I  _ am _ sorry for scaring you. I’m all right, I promise.” Yeosang held Keonhee gently, stroked his hand through his hair to calm him down. 

Keonhee only made a small noise of distress, holding him tighter.

It was some time later when Keonhee finally untangled himself from Yeosang, and only because Yeosang complained about catching a cold from the wet clothes as well as his legs going numb from Keonhee’s weight.

“What happened, Yeosangie?” Keonhee sniffed, settling into a much better seat on Yeosang’s floor, as Yeosang ruffled around in his trunk for a new set of clothes to change into.

“I suppose that was the townsfolk trying to chase me off,” Yeosang replied, beginning to disrobe. He knew Keonhee wouldn’t look, and even if he did, he was hardly ashamed. They were friends, after all, and his body was what it was. 

“But why were you so tired?”

“I cannot tell you.” Yeosang wished he could. It would lighten his spirit, to have someone to share his adventure with. But he knew he could not. He didn’t know if—

“Did you… Did you see Them?” whispered Keonhee. “Did you go to Them? Is that why you refuse to tell me?”

Yeosang froze. “Go to who?” he asked, frowning, feigning confusion.

But Keonhee, as usual, saw through him. “I would not think badly of you, if you did. I would not be afraid of you. You and I both know magic is real, no matter what the others claim. How else would we be as we are?” He curled into himself, and somehow, for someone so tall… he seemed so little, just then. “You are safe. They neither kept you nor changed you. That is enough for me.”

Now in dry clothes, Yeosang dropped down next to his friend. “Come here,” he said, pulling Keonhee into another hug. “I am sorry, I should have trusted you. I was just scared that... “ He shook his head. It was unimportant. “The truth is… yes. I did go to Them. I was devastated, last night, and I got reckless. I wanted to prove none of it was real.”

“But it is.” It wasn’t a question.

Yeosang nodded. “Yes, it is. I was found by some kind Folk, luckily. They kept me safe all night, but… I got no sleep, so as soon as I made it home…”

It took a long moment for Keonhee to speak again. “What was it like? What were They like?”

“Different,” Yeosang murmured, wistful. “Kind. Bright. Beautiful. I almost wanted to stay.”

“Why did you not?” 

“Because that world was not meant for me. And I could hardly just leave you,” he added, smiling.

“ _ Psh _ .” Keonhee shoved at Yeosang’s shoulder, sending him into a fit of giggles. “No need to suck up to me, Yeosangie, I know you hold no love for me,” he sniffed, teasing. He stood. “Well, we should probably get started on cleaning up.”

“We?”

Keonhee rolled his eyes. “Come  _ on _ , Yeosangie.”

/////

With Keonhee’s help, Yeosang was able to get most everything cleaned away by the time evening fell. The garden would be unusable for a long while, even if Yeosang flushed it with clean water everyday, but he refused Keonhee’s offer to use his garden.

He did, however, agree to help Keonhee out at the bakery for a small wage. He still did need to live, after all, and now that he couldn’t grow very much of his own food, he would have to buy at the market. 

They went to bed that night sore all over and bone-tired, both of them squeezed into Yeosang’s tiny bedroll… but satisfied, somehow. It wouldn’t be easy from here on out, he knew, but… soon enough life would return to normal. It always did.

/////

Yeosang wasn’t sure if he dreamt, that night. He knew, vaguely, that one of the Fae was nearby. He thought maybe it was Wooyoung, but he didn’t know for certain. He couldn’t seem to truly wake up, though he was more aware than he thought he should be if he was sleeping.

He did know with certainty, though, that someone’s fingers had brushed lightly against his, and that they were warm and comforting.

He slept soundly, a gentle smile on his face.

/////

He awoke to birdsong streaming in from the window, and sunlight dancing across his face.

Yeosang painstakingly extricated himself from Keonhee’s embrace. They hadn’t been able to salvage much, but the fruit trees had thankfully been mostly untouched, so maybe they could have some of the peaches for breakfast, and then he could go out and get them something to make a proper meal with. 

Mind settled, Yeosang pulled open the door and stepped outside—

“What— how…?”

Eyes wide, Yeosang stared out at his garden— 

His perfectly fine,  _ thriving _ garden. It was almost as if nothing had happened to it at all…

No, that was wrong. It was undeniable that something had happened— but that something was the exact opposite of destruction. The little plot Yeosang had— that should have been rendered infertile for many months to come at  _ least—  _ was barely visible underneath the rich foliage that had somehow sprung up overnight. There were ruby-red cherry tomatoes, emerald-colored squash, and delicate perilla leaves… There were snow peas and carrots, too…

But most telling of all, in between all the vegetables and herbs, here and there, Yeosang could see little pops of color: wild berries and soft flower buds, scattered with no rhyme or reason, wherever they could squeeze themselves in.

Wooyoung. Of course.

So last night, it had not been a dream at all.

Yeosang felt his heart flood with warmth, and though he was hesitant to speak Wooyoung’s name so carelessly, he did bend down to stroke his fingertips across the fluff of a dandelion, round and white and perfect, and he murmured a thank you to it, hoping that some way, somehow, it would reach Wooyoung.

As he went back inside for his basket, Yeosang couldn’t help but feel his delight shrink a bit, in the face of his realization: no matter how pleased Yeosang himself was, the townsfolk… would not be. He lived a little distance from the town, it was true, but it wasn’t uncommon for some of its inhabitants to pass by, on the way to some errand or other, or simply because they wanted to stretch their legs on a nice walk.

Yeosang was sure that word of his misfortune had already made rounds through the town. But when the townsfolk came around expecting— at most— an empty plot he’d just managed to clean up… They would find a garden in full bloom, effervescent and vibrant, ripe and waiting to be harvested. It was more beautiful than Yeosang’s garden had ever been before, and it was obvious.

No ordinary plants had colors that saturated, bore fruit that large and flawless. Yeosang was willing to bet his entire life that they tasted perfect, too.

He knew that this would, of course, cause him plenty of trouble, would probably only aggravate the townsfolk, especially when they were already more suspicious of him than normal as it was. But he had no right to complain. He wasn’t a fool, and he recognized a blessing when it came to him. And he really did rely quite heavily on his garden to support himself, and took so much joy in it as well, so…

No matter the consequences, Yeosang was willing to bear them. He was truly happy, that his friends would have thought of him so well they would bestow on him a gift such as this even after he had left them.

He knelt down in the dirt and began to pick what ingredients he’d need. 

/////

Keonhee was more than a little awestruck by the garden when he emerged to it, eyes and mouth growing so wide, Yeosang feared he’d hurt himself.

“They— Yeosangie, They must have really liked you,” he said, when he finally got his voice to work again, stepping hesitantly toward the little plot.

“I guess so,” Yeosang replied, from where he was cooking their simple breakfast of soup and rice. “You’re welcome to take what you like. There’s plenty, and they are all so ripe. I don’t know if they will spoil as quick as I would expect, were they normal fruit, but I would rather not waste any, so let’s err on the side of caution. I doubt that any of the market-goers will want any, no matter how good they look.” The last bit, from anyone else, might have come out bitter. But from Yeosang, it was just a statement of fact, and one he had long since made his peace with.

“Could I really? What if They curse me, Yeosangie? It was clearly meant for you, not me.”

That was… a valid concern. Yeosang didn’t have any guarantee that Keonhee  _ wouldn’t _ be cursed for it. But he had a feeling it would be all right. And he trusted it. “I think it should be fine, Keonhee-hyung. If you want, you can just take a little first. Or if they visit me again, I can ask, and then bring you some then.” He didn’t think it was necessary, really, but he also knew Keonhee could get pretty jumpy as it was. He’d hate for Keonhee’s nerves to get frayed all for a few measly crops, no matter how gorgeous and flavorful they were.

In the end, after a great deal of hemming and hawing, Keonhee decided to take some just before he left, borrowing Yeosang’s basket with promises to return it filled with pastries the next day. Yeosang laughed and waved it off, though he didn’t reject the offer; he did love sweets, after all, and Keonhee was a talented baker indeed.

Yeosang felt a burst of warmth in him, one that didn’t seem entirely his own. Like… the garden itself was rejoicing for being shared, though how he knew that, Yeosang could never hope to explain.

_ Thank you _ , he thought again to himself, and he hoped wherever Wooyoung and the others were, they could feel his heart and his sentiments.

/////

As expected, the town did not take kindly to the favor They bestowed on Yeosang.

The townsfolk were displeased, to say the least, to have evidence of the Folk at all, when for years, it had begun to seem as if They had never been real at all, the longstanding wariness and fear of the town’s inhabitants slowly withering away to match. To add insult to injury, too, it was not just some passing event, but directly related to one of their own people, no matter how much they wished not to claim him.

Yeosang had been prepared for this.

Still, it was one thing to know this would happen, to expect it even—

And another thing entirely to experience it. Somehow, Yeosang had not realized just how badly the townsfolk would take the blessing given to him.

Where before, he had been basically invisible, now, it felt like there was a bounty over his head. Gazes that used to skate over him now glared right at him, regardless of if he could see them or not; if the looks he was shot were physical, tangible things, well, Yeosang could probably be buried twice over.

The tavern had used to serve him half-heartedly— giving him his food when it had long gone cold, giving him a half-filled tankard of their worst ale and nothing more, barely minding him when he tried to order more. He’d learned quickly to stop trying to get their attention, to just sit, wait patiently until they decided to drop off what he had ordered, and then leave behind his payment and go when he was done.

Now, they wouldn’t even let him in the door.

Neither would anyone else, except for Keonhee.

_ We knew it _ , Yeosang heard them whisper, eyes narrowed suspiciously at him.  _ They touched him, he knows Them, and so he must be just as mischievous, just as dangerous. _

_ We should never have trusted him. Good thing we know better now _ .

_ His poor parents. He took their real child, made them raise a creature like him. And he had the nerve to claim he loves them, with that treacherous smile of his. _

_ He doesn’t belong. _

Yeosang gritted his teeth, and turned the other cheek. “Sorry,” he would say, smiling and hoping it didn’t look as thin as it felt. “I will go elsewhere, or do without. I will not bother you again.” He would bow, then, and step away.

Sometimes, he would be stopped, sympathy winning over prejudice. He would be told, tersely, to wait, and whoever he had visited would disappear into their storefronts. They’d come back a moment later and carelessly drop his items at his feet, and then hurry him off. Those were rare times, and he was grateful for them, bowing one last time in thanks before doing as they wanted and leaving.

He couldn’t help that his pride stung in his chest at being treated not as if he were not a person of his own, but a nuisance and nothing more, but…

He would learn, he was sure, to pay it no mind. He wasn’t a child any longer, knew his tears would be wasted, and just as he always had, he had no choice but to go on living as best he could. He could even pack up and leave, if he wanted. No one would miss him, except maybe Keonhee, but he could just take Keonhee with him, so that was a non-issue too.

Even as he thought it, Yeosang knew he would not do it. Maybe they wouldn’t miss him— but he would miss them.

Or maybe not  _ them _ , so much as this place. He had grown up here, lived here all his life. For all the sorrows he had felt here, he had also felt joy, and perhaps he was a fool for it, but he could not help but cling to the hope that one day, he would gain more of it. More joy, more peace, and to not have to chase it so far from home.

Those were the only things in life Yeosang had ever let himself feel greed for. 

The night that fell was the coldest one to touch the town in a while, but Yeosang felt warmer wrapped in its embrace alone than he had standing in the sun, surrounded by people he had grown up knowing.

/////

The rumours grew louder. Whispers turned to mutters turned to pointedly raised voices. Yeosang heard them everywhere he went, and he learned quickly he was no longer welcome to even take walks to town (after being tripped or shoved past enough times, he realized it was all intentional, and really, he didn’t have enough pairs of  _ baji _ , or enough thread to mend them with, to keep ripping them when he fell). Even in the comfort of his own home, he could hear them— voices carrying as someone or other happened to pass by; mocking challenges from the youths on their way to cause trouble, or suspicious complaints from the older folk off to get wood or water. It felt like he’d be permanently branded with their curses, with their hatred.

_ Not wanted _ , marked in scars on his brow for everyone to see.  _ Cursed. _

Even if he was anything but, and he knew it.

Still, it was one thing to know that rationally, and another thing entirely to know it by heart… and it was so very hard for his heart to remember, when it was so busy trying to patch itself up after their every backhanded attack.

_ Well _ , he would tell himself, as he swallowed back his frustration.  _ One eventually builds up a tolerance, right? Immunity for poison, calluses for scrapes. One day, it won’t hurt so much. _

/////

Yeosang hissed at the press of coarse cloth against his wound.

A particularly daring child had launched a sharp rock at him with a slingshot, and though Yeosang had luckily caught the movement in his peripheral vision and dodged…

He had been unable to do so completely, and it had grazed his arm. 

It wasn’t too deep or long, but it still bled, and it still stung, especially with such a rough material being dragged over it, but what else could Yeosang do? It needed to be cleaned, lest he got infected, and this was the only fabric he owned that he didn’t mind getting bloody; heavens knew whether he’d be able to wash the blood out, after all.

Once he’d thoroughly washed it clean, Yeosang reached for another length of fabric, cut from the same bolt as the first, and tied it tightly around his cut in a makeshift bandage. He’d be able to remove it soon enough, but he needed pressure on the wound to stop the bleeding, and he had things to do still, the day not yet over. He could probably afford a few minutes of sitting still and waiting, but he was, quite frankly, feeling restless, like there was something in his ribcage, settled close to his heart, and it wanted to get out. To move. It wasn’t so frantic, but Yeosang got the feeling that it would be, soon.

It was lucky, he mused, that those kids had run off almost before even seeing that they’d hit their target. Yeosang didn’t know how he would have responded, had they stuck around, his patience thinning out more than it ever had before. He knew he likely would have regretted it, though.

He flexed his arm a bit, testing the tightness of his bandage. It seemed all right; didn’t slide around, didn’t look ready to loosen or anything.

Satisfied, Yeosang sighed and stood. Someone had tossed rubbish into his yard, and he had only half-finished cleaning it.

/////

On one afternoon, Yeosang ran out of water. It wasn’t too far a walk, and far enough out from the town that he wouldn’t have to worry about running into anybody; few would be fetching water at this hour anyway, with the sun so high and angrily beating down like it had a grudge to settle. Decided, he set off on his task.

About ten feet away, he drew to a stop. 

Surrounding the old well the whole town drew their water from, was a wrought-iron gate that came up to Yeosang’s hip. That gate hadn’t been there before.

With a sigh, Yeosang hefted his jug up better to grip it in one arm, and walked up to the well. The gate was clearly meant for him; the Folk weren’t fond of iron, it was a well-known fact, and Yeosang would have bet anything it was iron as pure as the blacksmith could make it, for maximum effect.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t one of the Fae at all, and their efforts had been wasted. He flicked the latch easily, drew himself some water, and then left, letting the gate fall shut behind him so no one would know it had been disturbed but himself.

Even their water… even that, they worried he would defile? He scoffed to himself, setting down his jug heavily once he was once again home.

He was so tired.

/////

“Wow, Yeosangie,” said Keonhee, as he slid down next to Yeosang to sit on the ground, too-long legs folded awkwardly under him. “They must truly love you.”

Yeosang swallowed, staring at the garden the same way he had been for the past hour, at least. His garden, still brilliantly full of life, even as summer began to draw to a close, and everything else began to wilt. It had been more than a month since the garden was first blessed, and though Yeosang had hoped by now that the fear of him would die down, he wasn’t so lucky as that. He had seen the garden as a one-time boon granted him, too, a parting gift to be given, then forgotten…

But he had been mistaken.

He had yet to dream about any of the Fae again, but he knew they were there, and often too. He didn’t sense them as strongly as he had Wooyoung’s first visit, but he would have to be blind to miss the traces they left behind: pearly white feathers dropped by his pillow, soft as a kiss against his cheek when he woke; scatterings of red fur around his garden, usually right before his doorframe; odd little burn spots at the corners of his books, the edges of his furniture.

And it could only have been Wooyoung’s hand tending his garden, because Yeosang had long since stopped, in hopes that if it went away, then so too would the vitriol that dripped from the townsfolk’s lips to drown him.

“I think so too,” he murmured finally, though he didn’t turn to look at Keonhee.

Keonhee’s palm settled gently against his knee, a silent gesture of comfort and support.

It was not that Yeosang wasn’t appreciative. He was. The knowledge that for all the rumored fickleness of the Fae, his friends had not yet abandoned him, even all this time later, touched Yeosang’s heart in a way few things did.

But shamefully, he could not help but complain to himself in his own mind. Did they really need to be so overt about taking care of him? It was so obvious to anybody who happened to look that their touch and presence lingered. And as long as the townsfolk remembered he was unlike them, they would also remember their grudge against him.

He had thought he had been lonely before. But this was… this was almost too much for him to handle.

And the company of his Fae friends was nothing but as passing ghosts, there and gone again, so though it was a silver lining, amidst everything, it was a very slim one indeed.

He did, he supposed, have Keonhee and that was a lot in itself— Keonhee came nearly everyday, twice or thrice a day. Yeosang knew the bakery was getting less customers, now, and Keonhee himself was being shunned more than he had been, as if his being in Yeosang’s company made him equally cursed, as if Yeosang carried some sort of plague in him that could be passed on just through proximity.

For himself, Yeosang was not angry— only deeply lonely, only familiarly wistful. But for Keonhee? For Keonhee, Yeosang felt rage prick at his skin like a million drops of acid raining down on him.

There was sadness and guilt too, of course, like a dagger lodged firmly in his side, painful and sharp and impossible to ignore.

But Keonhee, well. He would simply smile at Yeosang, grip gently at his shoulder, and then wave off the issue, so what could Yeosang do but let it go? As much as he wished it was, it wasn’t his battle to fight.

And so, as often as he could spare, Keonhee came and sat with Yeosang, wherever he had chosen to be that day, stay for a few hours, and then leave, only to return later, or the next day.

“I would have thought,” said Keonhee, leaning lightly against Yeosang’s shoulder, “That you not caring for it would have offended Them enough to take the gift back, at least. Possibly lay a curse on you as well. That is what the old tales imply, right?”

“They… the ones I met are different from what we were taught in many ways,” replied Yeosang. “At this point, I think I will need to directly ask them to stop, but—” he laughed at himself, a bleak sound that made Keonhee turn to really look at him, brow furrowed in concern. “I am afraid to. They are very powerful, and I am… unsure I am willing to know what their wrath would look like.”

“Do you think they would be angry?”

Yeosang paused to consider that. “I’d like to think not,” he said slowly. “They were understanding when I chose to refuse their offer to stay.”

“Then how is this different?” It was not a challenge. It was a genuine question, a genuine attempt on Keonhee’s part to understand— and to help Yeosang understand too.

“This is not simply… politely rejecting an offer. This is… actively shunning, even spitting in the face of a gift. A very generous one,” he answered, finally, waving a hand vaguely at the garden. “I thought I had lost it all. But I wake in the morning and it is suddenly… the epitome of what a garden ought to be. More than that— just look at it, hyung.” His voice dropped to a whisper, equal parts awe and regret. “It’s so beautiful.”

Keonhee merely hummed in agreement. “I forget sometimes,” he murmured, “How far out of your way you will go to avoid a confrontation, even when you know there will be no ill will towards you for it. For all that you are blunt, you are also oddly hesitant to speak unless prompted first.”

Yeosang couldn’t argue with that observation, simply because it was true, so he didn’t. “Maybe they will tire of it, soon. Spoiling me. The time has been long for you and me, but who is to say what it is to them?” He blinked slowly. “Perhaps it has only been a fraction of a second, to them,” he said softly.

He wasn’t sure if the twinge in his chest at the thought was one of hope or disappointment. Perhaps it was both, as paradoxical as that was.

“It’s getting cold, Yeosangie,” Keonhee mumbled, hopping to his feet and stretching out a hand to Yeosang. “Come inside with me.”

Yeosang smiled weakly. “Why do you act like this is your home, and not mine?” he demanded jokingly, grasping Keonhee’s hand gently in his own and allowing himself to be tugged up.

“We share everything,” answered Keonhee, without hesitation. “Your home is mine, too. Mine is yours. That is how it has always been.”

He was right, of course. “I’m coming.”

/////

By some working of fate, Yeosang dreamt that night of a visitor.

No… that was inaccurate.  _ He _ was the visitor here.

They were not anywhere that Yeosang had ever seen in his waking life, a dark forest, with old, gnarled trees that stretched high overhead, branches so close together that only the barest, most stubborn scraps of light shone through. Everything here seemed tinted in shades of blue and gray and ash, but no less full of life. The air felt cool and strangely thick around him, and Yeosang almost felt that, if he could just relax himself enough, it could buoy him like water, and he’d float up to the boughs above.

Everything was strangely blurry, no matter how Yeosang tried to blink the bleariness from his eyes.

There was a figure across from him that felt familiar, but Yeosang could not tell who it was— he was shrouded in both cloth and shadow, such that Yeosang could only make out the shape of a rounded jaw and a full mouth shining red underneath a deep navy cowl.

Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled, and it sounded almost mournful. 

“Mingi…?”

“Not quite,” said the figure. He reached up and tugged his hood off to reveal Yunho, smiling sweetly at Yeosang. The dream still made him look fuzzy around the edges, but it was him.

Was it the strange effects of the dream, Yeosang wondered, that made his smile seem so off, somehow?

“Mingi is nearby, have no doubt of that,” said Yunho, stepping a little closer. “But he is watching over San, right now.”

That was concerning. It wasn’t any of his business, to be sure, but Yeosang had to ask. “What happened to San?”

Yunho grimaced. “One of the newer members of the Hunt thought he would prove himself by shooting him down— and prove me weakened by my bonds in the process.” He glared down at the ground, cold and steely, and though it was in no way directed at Yeosang, or even fully visible to him, Yeosang could feel a tremor travel down his spine, goosebumps rising in its wake. “He failed, of course. He is a century too young to best me, cocky with no reason, and he was doomed to fail from the start. The Hunt is a brotherhood; we do not attack our own, directly or indirectly,” he declared gravely. “He  _ will _ face consequences.”

He snapped his head up to meet Yeosang’s gaze, eyes soft. “But there is no need for you to worry. San will be well soon; he is merely a little bruised and shaken,” said Yunho, and Yeosang breathed a sigh of relief. “But that is neither here nor there,” continued Yunho. “I did not bring you here to tell you that.” 

“Why did you, then?”

Yunho hesitated, twiddling his fingers as he, presumably, considered his words. After a moment, he sighed. “You are unhappy,” he said, and there was no room for contradiction. “Why?”

Yeosang didn’t know what he was expecting the Fae to say, but it wasn’t that. “I—” he began, but then stopped. What could he say? Would he deny what was so obvious? What they must have been able to tell... because he had been trying to show it to them?

“Do you not want our gifts, Yeosang?” asked Yunho, when Yeosang remained silent. He didn’t sound offended or outraged— but he did sound sad.

Oh. That was what it had been, lingering at the edges of his smile earlier.

Sadness.

And if Yeosang squinted very hard, a pinch of hurt.

“That’s not… That is… most certainly  _ not _ it,” answered Yeosang, finally.

“Then what is it?” Yunho took another step closer. Yeosang took in the sight of him, in his full armor (or so Yeosang assumed), with his bow in one hand, blood splotched across the back and fingertips of the other. His golden eyes were sharper than any blade Yeosang had ever seen, and if he thought about it more, he knew the cherry color of Yunho’s lips was more than just skin.

But for all that Yunho looked every bit a living weapon, towering over Yeosang with all his gear and evidence of his cruel capabilities coating him head to toe, Yeosang was unafraid.

How could he be anything else, when he knew about the almost puppyish way Yunho liked to play, unsatisfied until everyone around them was smiling, laughing with him?

“Your blessings are kind, and appreciated. My garden means everything to me, and to have it restored after losing it so devastatingly… I was overjoyed. Words aren’t even enough to express just how much.”

“However...?”

“However…” Yeosang sighed, averting his gaze, ashamed of his own cowardice. “I am afraid I must ask you to take them back.”

“And why would we do that? We are not lenders, with a debt to hold over your head,” said Yunho, brow furrowed. “A gift is only a gift when given freely. You owe us not for it, if that is what you fear. I know others of our kind can act like every boon they grant is a loan to be collected with interest in the future, but… we are not that sort. You know this, yes?”

Yeosang nodded quickly. He trusted them, as reckless as that might have been. They had every right to know this. “I do,” he said.

The crease in Yunho’s forehead only deepened, confusion evident, though at least the pain was gone from his expression. Small victories, Yeosang supposed. “Then why?”

“I cannot… the townsfolk, they… I cannot live like this, Yunho-hyung,” Yeosang admitted, voice small, curling in on himself in shame. “I know I should be brave. I have all of you on my side, and a wonderful best friend besides, but… to know so many in the town despise me, fear me… you may think me weak for this, but I cannot bear that.”

Yunho’s frown dug a little deeper into his features. “And they are terrified of you? As if our blessing on you means a curse on them?”

Yeosang said nothing. He knew he didn’t have to.

The Fae heaved a great sigh. “You must know we never intended this to happen,” he murmured, voice so small for someone so large in so many ways. “We would never have done this had we known how— it is only that it has been so long, we had quite forgotten how cruel—” he shook his head, clearly dissatisfied with what he was saying. 

He reached tentatively for Yeosang’s hand, and Yeosang gladly let him take it; there was something so grounding about Yunho, and feeling as adrift as he had been lately, Yeosang was glad for the anchor, however temporary. “And Yeosang— we would never think you weak. Certainly not for this. It is so  _ hard _ to be human. You feel so deeply, face so much uncertainty, and truly, the worst of men can be more terrible than any malice most of us Fae have known— though the best of you burn so much brighter, so much sweeter than any of us, too. That is to say… Yeosang, you are hardly weak for feeling,” said Yunho, emphatically, squeezing gently at Yeosang’s fingers as if to press his words into Yeosang’s skin. “Weak is the  _ last _ thing you are.”

Yeosang felt his eyes sting, and tried for a sarcastic smile, as if that would stave off the tears. “What am I then, Yunho-hyung, when I quail so easily before mere words?”

“You are human, Yeosang. One of the strongest men I have ever stood before.”

Yeosang bit back a snort, but just barely. Still, something in his face must have given his disbelief away, because Yunho sighed again, this time soft. “Yeosang,” he said quietly, lifting his free hand to cup Yeosang’s cheek. Yeosang leaned into the touch, almost without realizing he was doing it. “If there is anything I have learned in my life, in all the battles and hunts I have been on: true strength lies not in boldness, or brutality, or even in cunning. True strength lies in kindness. In love. In mercy… And Yeosang, you have all of those in excess— why else would you be hurt, rather than angry or jaded? You have ample reason to be either; to grow bitter, to grow weary and leave. But you have not.”

Yunho stepped back and let him go, and though Yeosang felt strangely bereft for it, he said nothing. “You are human,” he repeated. “We shan’t judge you for that, much less punish you.”

“Then…” What did this mean?

“Then I suppose,” said Yunho, slowly, “We must rescind our blessings, reluctant though we may be.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I will speak with Wooyoung, and the others. They will not be pleased, I am sure, but they will not hold it against you.”

Yeosang felt relief swell in his chest, and smiled slightly. “Thank you, Yunho-hyung,” he said. “I appreciate it, just as I have all that you’ve given me until now.”

Yunho smiled back. “We know this, Yeosang. You are the first human in a long time to have earned our trust. It is not earned lightly, and certainly not by ingrates.” He paused. “However, Yeosang, I must ask you this: are we not to grant you anything at all, this moment on? Is that what would keep you safest? Is that what would keep you happiest?” The Fae looked so unbearably sad, almost pleading. His eyes, too, seemed almost puppyish, and Yeosang was loath to say ‘yes’ on both counts, though he knew he should.

But even without Yunho’s influence, Yeosang was aware he was only fooling himself. The Fae leaving his life entirely would, in all likelihood, be the safest scenario… but he knew he would not be happy that way, if he lost these friends he already treasured so much.

Or perhaps lost was not the right word. Not when it was his choice.

If he gave them up— for indeed, that is what he would be doing— he knew the truth: remorse would soon become synonymous with his own name.

Still, what other option was there? They would forget him soon anyway. Such was the way of the Fae, wasn’t it? Transient and fickle, despite their immortality.

Yeosang averted his gaze, tried instead to track the movement of a beetle on a nearby trunk rather than face Yunho. He swallowed harshly.

“Yunho,” came a voice, before Yeosang could force himself to answer. 

Seonghwa. The elf’s face was grim, though when he met Yeosang’s eyes, he immediately— deliberately— softened, as if trying not to scare him. “They need you, Yunho. Go. I will handle this.”

Yunho pouted, glancing at Yeosang sadly, clearly wanting to stay. Then, a growl sounded, loud enough for it to seem as if the ground itself were trembling beneath Yeosang's feet, and Yunho, without another look back, was off, vanishing into the woods.

After a moment, Yeosang began, “Hyung, I—” 

“Hush, Yeosang,” whispered Seonghwa, taking Yeosang by surprise and pulling him into an embrace. Though at first he stiffened, he eventually relaxed into it. Really, Yeosang was unsure he could have resisted; Seonghwa smelled of fresh, wide open glades and nectarines, and his hug was gentle but firm, protective and comforting. Wonderful and safe. Everything Yeosang longed for. “I understand. You need not explain.”

They remained that way for uncountable minutes. Finally, Seonghwa pulled away, and though he hesitated, Yeosang let him go.

“I may not know the full truth of the pains you have endured on our account,” said Seonghwa, scanning Yeosang head to toe, though Yeosang knew not what he was searching for. "But," he continued, mouth pursed as he rolled up the sleeve of Yeosang's  _ hanbok _ , revealing the still-healing scab of his wound, "I have an idea. I have known something similar, though that was a long time ago."

Yeosang knew it to be true by the look in his eyes, a look Yeosang had seen so often from his own reflection, from Keonhee, or Chan, or Hwanwoong. It was the look of an outcast resigned, of a loner who didn't  _ want _ to be lonely but knew he had no choice— though Seonghwa's was different… there was no edge to it, no desperate longing.

Which made sense, given the family Seonghwa had found for himself in the other Fae, and how time must have made it distant from him.

Seonghwa guided Yeosang to sit on the floor, and seemingly from nowhere, conjured up a small vial. He began to unwrap the bandage, and Yeosang let him, watching with mild curiosity as the gash was revealed. It didn't look infected, at least.

"We wish we could do more for you, but there is only so much we can do in your realm, unbound to you as we are. If you came to be one of us, we might be able…" Seonghwa sighed, uncorking the vial and carefully tipping the liquid inside over Yeosang's wound rather than continue.

Yeosang watched in awe as the scab shriveled up and fell; the skin beneath was healed, not a blemish left behind.

"But I know you would not have that. It is difficult to leave home, even at the worst of times, when it is all you have ever known. Isn't it?"

Yeosang nodded.

Seonghwa mirrored the action, as if confirming it to himself. "Then we will not push you. But Yeosang… Yunho's question was not without reason. We would like… Yeosang, in such a short time, we have grown to love you— and that is not a flippant thing we toss around, as some humans like to do. We Fae, when we feel, we do so deeply. 'Love' is a word we have chosen with great care and gravity," he said. "And we cannot love you and not act on it; it is not in our nature. We would like to still bless you, somehow. To watch over you in a way that you will recognize. May we, if we are discreet about it?"

"Why would you ask me this?" Yeosang breathed, feeling himself quiver. "As if I were some— some deity, to whom offering is an honor? As if you need my  _ permission _ ? I am just a man. A weak mortal. Any of you could kill me in between blinks with no more than a passing wish for it to be done." What had he done to deserve this? He was no hero, no martyr. He was not even particularly fascinating. He was just ordinary— maybe a little prettier. Maybe with a knack. Maybe more honest.

But at the end of the day, he was nothing special.

"Because we love you," said Seonghwa again, taking Yeosang's palms in his before Yeosang could hide his face there. "And that means that, ultimately, we want you to be happy. No matter how it will pain us to get you there, even by keeping our distance." He frowned. “And we would never kill you, Yeosang. Nothing in this realm or yours could make us.”

"I…" Yeosang worried his lip between his teeth. “Hyung, I… you have already given me so much, and—”

Seonghwa held up a hand. “Stop,” he said, not unkindly. “Has Wooyoung not told you yet, what we think about gifts?”

Wooyoung… gifts? Had he— oh, yes. Yes he had. He’d said, that time that they first met, that time that he had promised to give his name: 

“‘Gifts are not meant to be counted, neither by giver nor receiver,’” murmured Yeosang, echoing Wooyoung’s words all that time ago.

“Exactly.” Seonghwa, smiled, and his eyes inexplicably reminded Yeosang of days spent playing at the riverbed, of smooth stones that sat in the sunlight and seemed to carry pieces of it in them, ripe for skipping across the water. Keonhee had liked to do that, had liked to see how far he could send them. Yeosang had liked to pick them up and hold them, feel their warmth seeping into his palms and his fingers, before setting them down again with a little murmured thanks, as if it would be understood.

Even all this time later, Yeosang liked to think it had been.

“Is that a yes, Yeosang?” prompted Seonghwa. “Or shall we bid you farewell?”

A long moment passed in silence, nothing but the sound of rustling leaves and whistling wind between them.

“I have never been fond of goodbyes, hyung,” Yeosang said, voice rougher than he would have liked.

Seonghwa’s smile grew, and he lifted Yeosang’s hands, brushed a kiss over his knuckles. “Then we will not have any. Not today.” He let Yeosang go. “You may sleep, now, Yeosang. Let the day find you well-rested.”

The dream and its scenery faded, as did the wound on his arm, as though it had been healed in reality, and not in the imaginings of sleep. But the feeling of knowing he was loved so dearly, sweet and perfect and wonderful in Yeosang’s chest, did not fade at all, even long after waking.

/////

Yeosang had never been more aware of his knack than he had been recently. It tugged at him more often than it ever had, told him there was something on the windowsill, something tucked beneath his pillow, something among the flowerbeds.

The things he found may not have been his, but they were meant to be.

Gifts, he knew. Small ones. Easily hidden ones.

Beautiful ones.

Today, he knew he would find it— whatever  _ it _ was— in his water jar.

His knack had never worked this way before; in times past, he’d have to be explicitly asked about the whereabouts of the object, even just by himself. He had to know to look for it before he could find it.

But now, it was as if his knack were separate from himself, getting some alert he couldn’t detect, and suddenly, he just  _ knew _ .

It was so very, very strange, but not unwelcome.

Yeosang finished cleaning up his bed, then walked the short distance to the cabinet he stored the jar in. He fished around inside and came up with a handful of pearls, all flawless in shape and size and color. 

He marveled at them: they were so pretty, iridescent in the light. So smooth, too, and cool to the touch as he rolled them in his cupped palm. Were they from Jongho? Yeosang couldn’t imagine any of the others giving him a gift like this.

Yeosang smiled and whispered his thanks like a prayer, and then tucked them away with the rest of his slowly— but steadily— growing trove of treasures.

/////

Days passed one by one; the sun trekked up the sky and then carefully inched back down over the horizon, and the moon that admired it so chased after it as always, until the cycle repeated. 

Yeosang’s garden became more and more normal with each one that went by.

First to go were the colors: the unnatural jeweled tints were washed out, faded, left behind only the ordinary hues any plants ought to have. It was but a pale shadow, truthfully, of what it had been under Wooyoung’s blessing, but… it was better this way, Yeosang knew.

Second, came the wilting: crops that had for some reason or other extended their stay, their season long gone without them, began to shrivel up and wither away. Yeosang carefully uprooted each dead plant so they wouldn’t impede any new growth. If he couldn’t help but feel a pang of sadness each time he plucked yet another one from its spot, that was no one’s business but his own.

Third— and last— Yeosang’s garden became emptier: he hadn’t realized until then, just how much Wooyoung must have filled it, not just with foliage but with all kinds of life. No longer were there wild herbs and flowers tucked in every nook and cranny. It seemed quieter, too, with less birdsong, less bees come to collect some nectar. Yeosang had even grown accustomed to the occasional butterfly, colorful, silken wings beating gently at the air, fluttering so close he could feel the tickle of them against his skin. No longer. Now, as before, there was only the garden, Yeosang himself, and the occasional visitor, and those never did stay very long.

It was not a sad thing, really, when it meant that Yeosang might be forgiven by the townsfolk for whatever slight they had perceived him to commit.

Or so Yeosang told himself.

/////

A few days later, Yeosang stopped hearing passersby gossiping about him. There were no more shouted threats to drift in through his windows. No more hissed remarks about his unluckiness. No more mean remarks about his crops, as if they were cursed and binding. (Once, however, an old lady had paused outside his cottage, had looked at his little plot of earth with still-sharp eyes, and murmured, “Shame,” with a shake of her head before heading on her way; Yeosang tried not to dwell too much on it.)

It felt like he could breathe again.

/////

Yeosang mustered up the courage to go into town at Keonhee’s urging (read: ceaseless pestering). A quick stroll, that was all. He had always liked to do that, especially when he ended at the town square to toss in a coin and make a wish. It made him feel young again. Worriless. 

And Keonhee was always visiting him anyhow. It was time Yeosang returned the favor.

...assuming he was allowed passage.

To Yeosang’s pleasant surprise, no one stopped him. No one sneered at him, no one shoved into his space just to jostle him around. It wasn’t a warm welcome by any means, and nothing like it used to be, but it was a start. It wasn’t bone-chillingly cold, at least.

At least it didn’t hurt.

Yeosang felt a small smile curve his lips up, and entered the bakery.

“Told you,” said Keonhee, before Yeosang even spotted him. Yeosang found him kneeling before the oven, raised eyebrow and smug grin looking almost comical for all the flour coating him.

“Oh, to be sure you did,” said Yeosang, rolling his eyes. “But you can hardly fault me for being more than a little wary, given everything until now.”

Keonhee clicked his tongue, dusting off his hands on his apron, though Yeosang had no clue what good it would do, given that his apron was also white, as if Keonhee had washed it with flour rather than water. “Details,” he said. He turned to one of the display cases and pulled out a pair of treats— Yeosang had long forgotten what they were called, and currently wasn’t inclined to ask— and pushed one across to Yeosang. His voice softened. “Do you miss them?”

Yeosang jolted, glanced around quickly to make sure none of the other townsfolk were around. He sighed when he found the bakery empty, and no one on their way. “They haven’t left me, hyung. Just the garden,” he whispered anyway, just in case. “They still bring plenty of lovely gifts.”

“Wow, really?”

Around a bite of sweet red bean pastry, Yeosang nodded, fighting back a chuckle at Keonhee’s expression, so in awe, so wide-eyed and sparkling. Yeosang supposed he wasn’t the only one who still had something child-like in him.

“Can I see them?”

“Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> find me on twt @theauthorish
> 
> and feel free to join our atiny + weus writers' server! https://discord.gg/rdBGCGU

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on twt @theauthorish (for my random rts) and @withusangie (for my writing and creating!)
> 
> also! i made a discord for atiny, tomoon, and weve writers! come join us! https://discord.gg/rdBGCGU


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